


A Waltz for Lost Memories

by Slothnie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, F/F, F/M, Friendship, I'm Bad At Summaries, Internal Conflict, Knights of Walpurgis, Lots of Angst, M/M, Mind Games, No character bashing, Not Fantastic Beasts Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Political tension, Politics, Quidditch, Rating May Change, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slytherin, Time Travel, Unresolved Sexual Tension, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slothnie/pseuds/Slothnie
Summary: When Harry inspects a crucial vial of memory in the Pensieve, a strange mishap brings him half a century back in time.Under the guise of Hadrian Evans, freshly orphaned from Grindelwald's attack, Harry vows to lead a mediocre, unsuspicious presence at Hogwarts by fear of entangling the delicate thread of time.It should be a consolation that the handsome teenaged Tom Riddle seems less than interested in him, yet for reasons Harry fails to comprehend, it isn't... and soon he finds himself unwillingly drawn to the Slytherin Prefect's mysterious persona.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 121
Kudos: 454





	1. Accidents happen, and when they do, you better brace yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 09/14/2020: I changed the summary a bit because the previous one wasn't doing a good job at representing the story. Sorry for the inconvenience !!!
> 
> This is a re-write of a fanfiction I started in 2018 called Lost in Reminiscence which I have not updated for uh... a long time :) Looking back at it now, there are many things that I do not like about it, so I decided to start from scratch. 
> 
> Comments are highly appreciated :) This is still, theoretically, my first multi-chapter fanfiction

Harry’s skin prickled with sweat. He drew labored breaths as the air grew heavy, thickened by threatening waves of magic. The room – _Slughorn’s study_ – grew misty and blurry. Before long his surroundings were spinning and spinning—so fast Harry could see nothing but a great blur of whiteness. 

Somewhere far off in the distance, he could hear Slughorn's voice booming: _I don’t know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn’t tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don’t let me catch you mentioning them again!_

Suddenly, when Harry least expected it, everything simply… _stopped._

A chilling emptiness swallowed him in complete darkness and Harry experienced a strange feeling akin to floating in space, except that that there were no stars.

A numb state of nothingness was the last thing Harry remembered before slipping into sweet oblivion. 

When Harry roused, he was staring into a recognizable dull shade of grey. He had seen it more times than he wanted.

The Hospital Wing’s ceiling. 

The events of last night came to him slowly.

He had been in Dumbledore’s office, inspecting a crucial vial of memory in the Pensieve, one which would lead to unveiling Voldemort’s darkest secret.

Slughorn and young Tom Riddle were on the subject of ‘Horcruxes’ when the Potion Master’s voice began to muffle strangely, as if a thick veil had blurred his speech. It was the strangest thing. Soon enough the room grew misty and distant and a spell of dizziness overcame Harry. Just before losing consciousness, Harry remembered floating in a strange state of nothingness.

Propping himself on his elbows against the bedpost, he eagerly found his glasses on the night stand. Blinking hardly, Harry attempted to survey the outlines of his surroundings before a sharp pain in the back of his head caught his attention.

‘You’re awake,’

Harry’s eyes snapped sharply to the source of the speaker, ignoring his throbbing headache. 

It was a plump middle-aged woman in a Healer’s uniform. Harry had never seen her around, and it seemed that it was mutual, as the matron stared at him warily. Harry frowned. Though not one to pay much attention to details, he noted that her robes were out of date.

‘Er, where’s Madame Pomfrey?’ He inquired out of curiosity.

Harry’s visits to the Hospital Wing had always been accompanied by Madam Pomfrey’s nagging in the background. Her absence was a strange phenomenon.

‘Madam Pomfrey?’ she echoed. A disquieting expression settled upon her features, deepening the lines on her face.

‘Er, Madame Pomfrey, the school’s matron?’ Harry said expectantly.

The lady looked shocked, as if Harry had asked a taboo question. A nauseating feeling twisted into Harry's stomach as the matron walked away and joined her assistant who stood waiting by the door. Words spoken too low for him to understand were exchanged in a hurry.

Harry studied the empty beds standing in the room. They were positioned, he noted, in a most unusual angle. Wherever he looked, the Hospital Wing stared back at him with eerie unfamiliarity. 

Minutes passed before an important looking elderly man entered the room. At his side, a familiar twinkle caught Harry’s attention.

It was Dumbledore, but _– young_ , sporting a ginger beard. 

Harry stared in disbelief. 

Was he still stuck inside the memory? No, that couldn’t be… or could it?

Harry knew something went wrong inside the Pensieve… but if he was actually inside a memory - like he had been in Tom Riddle’s diary in his Second Year - how could he interact with the people inside? 

A cold shiver rippled against his back as a terrible thought occurred to him. Was he stuck inside a memory, or was he actually stuck in the _past_? 

Before Harry could entertain the thought, the elderly man stood at his bed.

‘Hello, I am Headmaster Dippet.’ the greeted. A mask of rigid determination shrouded the other’s features, not revealing a sliver of emotion. ‘You were found unconscious in our corridors last night by a student. When you were brought to the Hospital Wing for treatment, we were unsuccessful in identifying you within our school system. I hope you have an explanation for this.’ 

Harry swallowed thickly under the other’s scrutiny.

Seeing that Harry was hesitating to speak, Dippet continued. ‘Trespassing the grounds of Hogwarts is a serious offense, punishable by strict laws. You should consider your words carefully before speaking them, for they will hold great responsibility, but silence will not be taken lightly.’

‘Er, Can I speak to Dumbledore,’ said Harry. ‘In private…?’ 

‘I see no reason why this discussion should be kept from me.’ Dippet said coldly.

Harry searched for Dumbledore’s eyes, desperate. He was reassured by a familiar twinkle, but it was strange, foreign – _young_. After all, this was not the Dumbledore of his own time.

‘Armando,’ said Dumbledore, resting his hand on his predecessor’s shoulder. ‘You are frightening him. It appears that the boy knows me. Let me have a word with him first. If you have questions, the boy is not going anywhere.’

‘I suppose that wouldn’t hurt.’ Dippet concurred, albeit rather reluctantly. ‘I will be waiting in the hallway, Albus, if you ever need me.’ 

Dumbledore smiled.

The older man withdrew from the Hospital Wing. His departure was shortly followed by that of the matron and her assistant. 

‘Care for a lemon drop?’ Dumbledore said jovially. His hand reached inside the pocket of his robes. 

Despite his youth, Dumbledore had lost none of the peculiarities that he would later possess as an older man. 

He listened to Harry’s story with patience, drinking in the information calmly, and at intervals, paused him to scavenge for details that he had left out. At times he would stare in the distance, with no real target in mind, and in those moments, Harry wondered what exactly the older was thinking.

Harry was asked not to disclose Voldemort’s identity to Dumbledore, as he did not wish to know more than was necessary, which was a wise thought considering the fragility of the timeline.

‘So… do you believe me?’ asked Harry, observing the older man’s features.

Dumbledore considered him for a moment. ‘I do not think you are lying.’

‘Then d-do you think that I travelled back in time through the Pensieve?’

‘Well, Harry – may I call you Harry?’ Harry nodded at this. Dumbledore continued. ‘I think so, yes. After all, I would like to think that I am not a fragment of memory floating in a Pensieve. We would not be able to have this conversation, had it been a simple malfunction of the Pensieve.’

Harry felt sick, mind whirling in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand… _fifty_ years… even the best time-turners only allows 5 hours...’

‘Time turners?’ Dumbledore repeated.

‘Devices that bring us back in time…only that they can’t go beyond the threshold of 5 hours even in our time.’ Harry explained.

‘That is an impressive advancement in magic.’ Dumbledore said. ‘devices made to bring on back in time. One can only imagine the possibilities.’

‘I have never heard of a Pensieve behaving like that… not to mention bringing someone back 50 years… it’s quite hard to believe...’

‘A mystery, indeed.’ The other mused. ‘Harry, your experience with the Pensieve was most peculiar. I recall that you mentioned that there was an accident, correct?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Harry. ‘The Pensieve seemed to repel me - or perhaps the memory itself - which has never happened before.’

‘Then my guess is that there was something wrong with the memory.’ Dumbledore concluded. ‘A trigger, perhaps, for something greater than our understanding, leading to your arrival here.’

Harry considered this. The blurriness did seem rather strange, and then there was the whirlpool of magic - he hoped he would never experience that ever again - it was as if the Pensieve was reacting against the memory.

‘Perhaps you are right, sir.’

‘We can only guess,’ Dumbledore murmured. ‘Harry, whatever happened that night was an extraordinary event beyond the boundaries of our knowledge. I would like to promise you a way home, but I am afraid I can’t. In 1943, there is little we know about travelling to the past, and even less about travelling into the future. It seems that you are stuck with us for the time being.’

Harry swallowed a thick lump in the back of his throat. The strong likelihood of not returning to his time was no surprise, but the thought of staying in 1943 for an indefinite period of time did not hurt any less. 

His thoughts shifted to his friends - _Ron, Hermione_ … when would he be able to see them, if ever, again? They were right here, within the walls of Hogwarts, possibly walking through the very corridors that extended beyond the Hospital Wing, but the distance between them grew vast, stretched by the insurmountable width of _time_ \- half a century of it.

‘But that doesn’t mean that we will abandon our ambitions here.’ Dumbledore said on a more optimistic note. ‘Mishaps in magic often help us develop a deeper understanding of different branches of magic. We will conduct more research on the matter and, if our efforts prove fruitful, this may not be a one-way ticket to 1943 for you.’

Harry smiled faintly. ‘Thank you, professor.’

Dumbledore twinkled. ‘Before then, I think it is best for you to stay here at Hogwarts, where you will find shelter and safety. It is also a good idea to continue your education. You are in your sixth year, correct?’

It was decided that he was Hadrian Evans, freshly orphaned from Grindelwald’s attack on a village in France, where Hadrian and his godfather, undercover workers under Dumbledore’s employ, were laying a low profile. Upon being discovered, his godfather was murdered, and Hadrian’s only means for escape was a portkey that led to Hogwarts. That would do the trick for convincing Dippet.

For the others, well, there was no need to mention the details of his arrival. Due to the sensitive nature of the war, inquiries about his personal life could be politely refuted, which played well into their hands; Harry’s arrival in 1943 was a matter of the utmost secrecy, only known to Dumbledore and himself. 

They soon put their fabricated story to the test. With Dumbledore’s backing, Dippet and the matron were convinced by his new identity, though Dippet had many questions in store for him, which Dumbledore happily answered with a twinkle in his eye.

The matron, who now regarded Harry with eyes full of sympathy, rushed Dippet and Dumbledore away from him. ‘My patient needs his rest.’ she said sternly. ‘If you wish to talk to him, it will wait until tomorrow. Now, off you go!’

Matrons, Harry noted, were not so different across time.

‘How are you feeling, dear?’ the matron asked gently after the men had retreated from the Hospital Wing.

‘Fine,’ Harry answered. ‘Just a small headache.’

‘Ah yes, you seem to have suffered from a rather serious accident, young man. You are fortunate to get away with a mere concussion. Here, drink some of this concoction. The pain will soon go away.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harry, pressing the vial to his lips. 

If you ask me,’ she continued. ‘You were very lucky to have been found by a fellow student at that… _ungodly_ hour. I would hate to imagine what would have become of you had you not been brought here in a hurry.’

‘Yeah, I suppose I really am.’ Harry said, though he was far from considering himself ‘very lucky’ in his situation. ‘Do you remember who it was? The person who found me.’

‘Oh yes I do,’ she said, smiling fondly at the memory. ‘His name is Tom Riddle.’

Harry woke up the following day with a terrible feeling in his gut. He was reluctant to open his eyes, hoping that it had all been a terrible, vivid dream. That it had been a horrible nightmare that he could soon forget after awakening.

Reality, of course, was often disappointing.

After spending the entire morning glaring at the ceiling and hating on the universe, Harry was beginning to run out of things to do. He was so bored he started counting the patches on the bed sheet. 

To his relief, Dumbledore came later in the afternoon, with the news that he would be released later in the evening.

Harry had been anxiously anticipating his discharge all day. Mostly, he was happy to be finally free, but there was also an undercurrent of unease growing in his chest.

As much the Hospital Wing was an absolute bore, its four walls had also provided Harry a sense of safety. The door that stretched between him and the rest of the castle was the last barrier between Harry’s little world and the real world out there waiting for him.

A very real world seemingly pulled out from the past. Hogwarts 1943.

It was intimidating, to say the least.

And there was, of course, the matter of Voldemort.

A _teenaged_ Voldemort.

Harry did not know what to think of it. The idea of witnessing Tom Riddle strolling casually around Hogwarts, seemingly innocent and charming, was wrong on so many levels.

It was one thing to face Voldemort in the battlefield in a mortal combat and another to play along with the innocent model student act of a lethal Dark Lord.

 _future Dark Lord,_ he corrected himself, remembering that it was Riddle himself who had found Harry in a deserted hallway two nights ago. It was strange to picture himself being carried all the way to the Hospital Wing by his future nemesis…

‘ - listening, Harry?’ Dumbledore said, snapping Harry out of his thoughts.

‘Sorry - yes, Professor?’

Dumbledore smiled at him. ‘Like I said, you will be invited to the Great Hall tonight to be sorted into one of the four Houses of Hogwarts. I suppose the tradition is not new to you.’

Dumbledore observed him merrily, as if this were terrific news.

‘Er,’ said Harry. ‘I was sorted in Gryffindor in my time. I don't think it's necessary to go through the Ceremony again.’

‘In the future, _your_ present, yes.’ said Dumbledore softly. ‘But here in 1943, it would be nothing short of suspicious to let you bypass the Sorting Ceremony. Dippet is not a fool. He may look convinced by our story-telling, but his guard is not down.’

‘I suppose that’s true.’ Harry conceded, knowing that Dumbledore was right, but there was a reluctance to let that tiny voice enter his mind again, not knowing what it will discover this time.

‘Very good,’ Dumbledore said. ‘Now, let us address the subject of this mysterious dark wizard who awaits us in the distant future.’

Harry nodded, straightening himself against the bedpost.

‘I understand it is your – and my – ambition to defeat this person, but I am sure you noticed that the situation has drastically changed. Your enemy is, despite his future deeds, currently a student at Hogwarts and is most likely still an innocent soul.’

Harry nodded, though he doubted Riddle had ever been an ‘innocent soul’.

‘You, Harry, are a time traveller. Knowledge of the future comes with great limitations. It is not your place to actively interfere with events in the past, however tempting it may be, for such actions may lead to outcomes diverging from your future. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, I understand, professor.’

From a practical perspective, Harry knew better than anyone the chaotic potential of time travelling, having been the user of a Time Turner once.

Dumbledore caressed his ginger beard pensively. ‘However, the reverse also applies; your role in our timeline may not be as passive as we believe it to be. After all, how can we truly understand our part, when we are an active participant in the story? Hence, I will leave things to your better judgement in difficult situations, with the hope that you recognize the consequences of your actions and the responsibility that comes with them.’

‘Yes, professor.’

‘It is unfortunate,’ the older man sighed. ‘If Fate had chosen our paths to meet, she had chosen a most inconvenient time.’

Harry looked questionably at the older man.

‘You see, Harry, we are in the middle of war, which is sweeping the wizarding world in absolute turmoil.’

‘Grindelwald.’ Harry said in realization.

‘Precisely.’ Dumbledore said, and at that moment Harry thought he looked very tired. ‘I am in a very difficult position, Harry. People on all sides are pushing me on the warfront. After Grindelwald’s recent and ongoing rampage in France, I’m afraid I can no longer afford the comfort of my teaching position here at Hogwarts.’

‘So, you’re going? To fight Grindelwald?’

Dumbledore nodded. ‘That is the plan, Harry.’

‘Do you know when you will be back?’

‘Excellent question, Harry.’ Dumbledore smiled faintly. ‘If only I knew the answer.’ 

According to Harry’s first chocolate frog card, Grindelwald's famous defeat after a heated fuel with Dumbledore was in 1945.

That was two years in the future – which was a strange thought – and Harry desperately hoped he wouldn't have to wait that long before returning to his time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rereading this chapter I realize how cliche it is haha, but I gotta start somewhere, right? Hope you guys managed to enjoy it regardless :)


	2. Straight into the Serpent's Lair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2, enjoy!

Going through the Sorting Hat a second time was no less intimidating than the first. 

Harry looked up from his stool. Some of the students stared back at him with blatant curiosity. Others were too busy whispering between themselves. There was something undeniably exciting about a mature student arriving a week late for the start of school. 

_A transfer student? An exchange student?_ Harry could imagine a chain of burning questions.

It was not so much the attention that put him at unease this time, but rather the uncanny unfamiliarity of a place he had considered his home for the past 5 years. Brushing his gaze across the Grand Hall, there was not a single face he recognized in the crowd. Hogwarts looked more foreign than it had 5 years ago.

He avoided looking in Slytherin’s direction altogether. 

The Sorting Hat dangled beneath Dippet’s clutch. Even half a century younger, it was an old, shabby thing. 

_You would have done well in Slytherin._

Harry bit the bottom of his lips, hoping that the thought would go away. He had told himself over and over again he would be sorted in Gryffindor. He had pulled the sword from the Hat itself in the Chamber of Secrets after all, didn’t he? A true Gryffindor.

 _But that was years ago,_ a little voice spoke, _hissed_.

His eyes darted to Dippet, who was still explaining Harry’s - Hadrian Evans’ special circumstances. It was a retelling of the story he and Dumbledore had crafted. Dippet’s rendition of the tale was superior to Harry’s; there was now a distinct air of sadness and pity radiating from the four tables, directed at Harry. 

By the time Dippet was finished, a knot had settled deep into Harry’s lower stomach, twisting his insides. The inevitable was coming, and he could not stop it.

Harry closed his eyes as he felt the old Hat’s ragged fabric descending upon his head. Before long a voice invaded his mind.

‘A tricky one, aren’t you?’ the Hat mused. ‘Where should I put you this time?’

_Gryffindor!_

‘Tempting,’ the Hat said, but it did not sound very sincere. ‘But like I told you last time, you would have done well in Slytherin.’

_Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin. Not Sly-_

‘That won’t work this time. Do you think you will survive this era through bravery and nerve?’ it chuckled. ‘I think not. Things are not so simple as they once were. We both know it is self-preservation and resourcefulness that will help you achieve your goals this time.’

 _You can’t_ , Harry argued. He knew he sounded desperate, but he did not care. _I can’t be in the same House as **him** \- you know who I am talking about._

‘Have you deluded yourself into thinking you are special and deserve preferential treatment?’ the hat said cruelly. ‘I am the Sorting Hat. And I have one job.’

‘BETTER BE SLYTHERIN!’ its voice echoed through the walls of the Great Wall.

Harry's stomach dropped as a thunderous cheer welcomed him from the Slytherin side – _Voldemort’s_ side. 

He glared at the floor with passion.

He found his seat at the edge of the Slytherin table. A group of First Years shuffled away from him, looking intimidated. Harry grabbed absently for food. The taste never reached his palette. His mind was elsewhere, fuming. 

‘Hadrian Evans was it?’ a sweet voice greeted from behind, almost musical. Harry knew him before he saw him.

Harry spun around, meeting dark eyes. The boy was as Harry remembered from the memories: handsome and charming with air of confidence. 

Tom Riddle stretched out an expectant hand. ‘Tom Riddle. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

Harry took the hand and shook it firmly. It was surprisingly warm and smooth - _human_ , not like the gaunt, cold fingers which touched him at the graveyard. 

‘The pleasure is mine.’ came out of him like an automated voice. The words tasted distant upon his lips; he meant none of them.

Riddle smiled. ‘As the Slytherin prefect of our year, I welcome you warmly to our House .’

‘Thanks,’ Harry managed to bite out.

‘I’m sorry to hear of your circumstances, Evans.' Riddle murmured. 'I would like to offer you my sincerest condolences.’

_Lies. All lies._

Dark eyes rose to meet Harry’s, looking for a reaction, expecting the broken expression of a boy in grief.

‘It’s alright. I’m used to it.’ said Harry dismissively. He refused to act like a sad puppy in front of Voldemort, the root of all his troubles.

 _\- not Voldemort yet,_ he reminded himself.

‘It is a difficult time we live in. A true pity.’ Riddle remarked.

‘I know.’

The smile was always there, sweet like honey, but Riddle’s expression was unreadable. ‘Would you like to join me at the other side of the table, Evans? I would like to introduce you to my friends, who are all very eager to meet you.’

Harry almost scoffed. Riddle did not have _friends_. He had allies and enemies, followers and foes. But friends? No, he did not care for such things.

‘Okay,’ he answered dully.

With more than enough time on his hands after Dumbledore’s visit, Harry had played various scenarios in his mind. He was prepared for the worst: sorting into the House of his mortal enemy. If things came to this – _and indeed they did_ – Harry had decided it to be in his best interest to not attract Riddle’s attention.

That meant keeping interactions with Riddle to a bare minimum, but also acting pleasant enough around the other and _not_ challenging him in any way. He would hate to raise Riddle’s suspicions and potentially jumbling up the timeline. 

If Harry wanted to survive in 1943, he had a role to play. And Hadrian Evans was going to be a very uninteresting character in this chapter of the story.

Harry had tasted enough fame in his lifetime. He had suffered a great deal from being famous _and_ infamous (the better half of his Fifth Year was a nightmare) for the simple reason of having a scar on his forehead.

Harry welcomed an ordinary presence with open arms. 

He could take a break from Voldemort - Tom Riddle too. 

Perhaps the Hat was right. He was opting for self-preservation this time. How very unlike him. 

‘Follow me,’ said Riddle almost too quietly, but Harry did not miss it.

It would sound like an order from any other person, but from Tom Riddle’s lips it almost sounded sweet and inviting. Almost.

Riddle walked elegantly; each step was taken with grace, yet effortlessly. As they strode down the length of the table, a wave of heads turned in their direction. At first, their eyes found the Slytherin prefect, by force of habit, for who was Tom Riddle if not distinguished, respected and turning heads? Next, they inspected the newest addition to Slytherin with mild curiosity, eager to form an opinion of him. 

Riddle led Harry to the middle of the table, where two seats were quickly liberated for them. Harry slid into the center of a group of boys looking roughly their age, carrying a distinct air of self-importance. They closed in around him, watching him with sharp eyes.

 _Straight into the serpent’s lair_ , Harry thought grimly.

Tom Riddle took the seat next to Harry. His proximity was alarming,. Their thighs were almost touching and before long there was a distinct fragrance that invaded Harry’s nostrils. It smelled mellow and warm, not unlike honey. 

‘Gentlemen,’ Tom Riddle’s voice was soft, but there was an underlying note of authority in his tone that Harry could not ignore. At once, the others looked up at once. ‘We are joined today by Hadrian Evans, the newest member of our House. Let’s give him a warm welcome.’

Heads turned in his direction, eager to inspect the latest addition to their dormitory - Harry paled at the thought. He was going to _sleep_ in the same room with Vol - Tom Riddle and his future Death Eaters - 

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Evans.’ said a blonde boy to Harry’s right, pulling him out of his inner monologue. His features were decidedly handsome, and his smile was charismatic, but differently so from Tom Riddle. ‘Edouard Rosier is the name.’

Harry shook his hand. 

Next was a freckled boy with a large smile stretching ear to ear.

‘Benedict Mulciber!’ the boy shook Harry’s hand vigorously, smiling broadly. ‘I look forward to our school year together, Evans.’

‘Likewise,’ Harry smiled tentatively.

Mulciber seemed like one of those people who never stopped _smiling_. And talking, he would soon find out. 

Atticus Avery, by contrast, proved to be a man of few words. Broad shouldered and stupid looking, he simply grunted and when Harry stretched out his hand, he made it his personal mission to _crush_ Harry’s hand. 

Harry’s smile did not falter. 

The last boy in the group possessed sharp aristocratic traits that Harry considered conventionally attractive, but they were diminished by a ghostly pale complexion.

‘Randolph Lestrange,’ the other greeted.

Harry tensed at the surname, noting the boy’s black curls and high cheekbones. Then he saw those _eyes._ They were the eyes of a madman.

Everything lived up to the infamous surname. 

Lestrange, unlike his friends, did not shake Harry’s hand. He instead cocked his head to the side, eyes hungry in search for something Harry did not like. ‘Tell me, Hadrian Evans. Is that your real name?’

‘Why should I tell you?’ Harry said, feeling his pulse fastening.

‘Because Evans sounds awfully like a Mudblood’s name.’ Lestrange hissed, rolling the words distastefully on his tongue. 

‘I’m Half-blood,’ Harry offered coolly. ‘But if you couldn’t even tell, then maybe you should reconsider your prejudices about Muggleborns.’

Hermione would have been proud.

The table stood quiet for a few seconds. Even the neighboring groups of Slytherin seemed to notice the awkwardness lingering in the air. 

The first to break the silence was Lestrange himself, who doubled over and started shaking with laughter. Most of the Slytherins at this point drew their attention to their group, necks stretching for a better view of the commotion. 

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

‘Aww, Atty, did you hear him? How _adorable_!’ Lestrange elbowed Avery’s biceps (who grunted in response). Wiping away imaginary tears of laughter, Lestrange leaned in, looking at Harry with fluttering eyes. ‘This is my first time seeing one so close up. A Muggle-lover in the flesh!’

Harry’s fists curled beneath the table. His knuckles turned white. 

Lestrange’s dark eyes poured into Harry’s. ‘Well, was it worth your trouble, Evans? Was it worth losing everything in your fight against the Dark Lord..?’

‘That’s enough, Randolf.’ Rosier cut in. ‘You are making Evans uncomfortable.’

‘Oh, but that _is_ precisely my goal.’ Lestrange said gleefully, licking his lips. ‘But if I made _you_ personally uncomfortable, Rosy-boy, I better watch my tongue next time.’

They shared a brief look, knowing something that Harry did not. 

‘Thank you for your concern, Rosier,’ Harry said calmly, before turning his head to meet Lestrange’s dark gaze. ‘And to correct your question, Lestrange, I haven’t lost everything.’ 

‘Yet,’ added Lestrange, teeth bared.

Lestrange was becoming more and more detestable by the minute. It took great effort to subdue the bubbling anger rising in Harry. 

‘You crossed the line, Randolph.’ intervened Riddle, who Harry had nearly forgotten in the fury of the moment. His voice was smooth and soft, but there was a sharp edge to its quality. ‘That is a serious offense against someone who suffers recently from great losses.’

‘Apologies,’ Lestrange said insincerely, but Harry knew better than to expect an honest apology from the boy.

‘Evans, here’s some advice if you want to stand Lestrange without constantly wanting to strangle him in his sleep.’ advised Rosier, clearly trying to diffuse the tension. ‘You must not take him too seriously. It is because one gives him attention that he acts on it.’

‘Duly noted.’ Harry said. 

‘We collectively suffer from Lestrange’s volatile character.’ Mulciber said, shaking his head as if talking about a misbehaving child. ‘He is the problem child of our House.’

Lestrange elected to ignore them. Ever since Tom Riddle’s intervention, Harry noted, he had grown quiet. 

The awkward moment passed. The conversation shifted, but Harry was no less at ease, as it soon began to feel like an interrogation.

The snakes' questions flowed, prying Harry at every angle. He could feel them studying him carefully, trying to form an opinion of the newcomer. It was - _suffocating_. Had it been any other House - Gryffindor, for instance - Harry wouldn't be scrutinized like an animal at the zoo. 

To Harry's surprise, Riddle proved to be surprisingly quiet. But on the occasions that he spoke, his words carried great weight in the flow of the conversation. There was, Harry noticed, a strange expression on his handsome features, appearing distant, almost detached. It lingered as the evening dragged on. 

Harry did not like it. 

‘I am guessing this is the first educational institution you’ve been to?’ said Mulciber, who questioned him the most. ‘Dippet mentioned that you were home-schooled.’

‘That’s right.’ said Harry, trying to sound as natural as possible. ‘My godfather and I were constantly on the road. Studying at establishments would be temporary commitments at best, so homeschooling was the best option.’

‘How is the curriculum designed?’ inquired Mulciber, shoving a carrot up his mouth. The boy was always busy using his mouth, Harry thought. 

‘Well,’ said Harry, thinking of what Hermione would answer in his stead. ‘Everything is based on succeeding the OWLs and NEWTs examinations.

‘You must have done your OWLs last year, then.’ Rosier said.

‘That’s right,’ Harry nodded. 

‘That’s a relief.’ Mulciber smiled. ‘I hope you will have no trouble keeping up with Hogwarts’ syllabus.’

Harry agreed.

‘It must have been a challenge for you to study while being constantly on the road.’ Rosier observed, who had long finished his meal.

Harry wished the others could _hurry the bloody hell up_.

‘I got used to it.’ Harry shrugged, feeling too tired to elaborate any more.

‘It’s truly a pity,’ noted Mulciber, folding his arms. ‘With the Muggle war at full swing, and of course, the advances of Grindelwald’s dark forces, I can only imagine the hardships you and your Godfather went through.’

‘The Muggle War?’ Harry blurted without thinking. It was his first mistake.

The others shared an incredulous look, as if Harry had grown a third eye. Without thinking, Harry’s eyes found Riddle. The other boy was eating quietly, but the distant look in his eyes was replaced by something else that Harry did not understand at the time.

‘The _War,_ ’ repeated Mulciber, tearing Harry’s attention from Riddle. ‘Surely you would have heard about it if you were travelling to Muggle villages.

 _1943_. Harry thought deeply. Muggle War. _Of Course._

‘Oh, right. The Second World War.’ Harry said awkwardly, trying to recover from his slip. But the snakes were not easily convinced. They never were and they always remembered.

‘I didn’t know they called it the Second World War. A Muggle term, perhaps?’ commented Rosier.

It never occurred to Harry that important events of the past were rarely officially labelled during their time. Experience came first, naming always came later and then the forgetting. It was like how a bad dream was called a nightmare only after awakening, after which the dream slowly slipped away from one’s mind.

‘I have not heard of the term myself, but I must say it is quite fitting.’ contemplated Mulciber. ‘But Evans, my question is...’

Not for a moment did Harry forget that these very people he was casually speaking with would likely become the very first Death Eaters. Voldemort’s loyal servants. And the future Dark Lord himself was sitting next to Harry, observing him silently while his cronies carried the interrogation for him, drinking pumpkin juice. 

Voldemort drinking pumpkin juice. It was almost laughable.

‘What’s that?’ Avery spoke for the first time. His sausage-like finger pointed to the back of Harry’s left hand, in which he was holding a cutting knife.

_I must not tell lies._

‘A scar,’ Harry said bluntly, casting a brief glance at his own hand.

He never liked looking at it for too long. It was a foul reminder of the events of his Fifth Year. The images came flooding. Cruel whispers following his back, a suffocating pink room, long dark corridors and death – _Sirius’_ death. 

Lestrange shifted excitedly in his seat. A subject of interest had _finally_ reached his ears. He leaned forward, bending his neck to study the scar carved deep into Harry’s skin. Harry pulled his hand away, but it was too late. 

‘Looks relatively fresh to me.’ Lestrange concluded from the examination. His hungry gaze shifted to Harry’s forehead, lingering there. ‘I wouldn’t say the same for _that._ ’

The others shifted around him, subtly leaning in for a better look. Harry squirmed uncomfortably, hating the attention. Harry avoided looking in Riddle’s direction, but he could picture his dark gaze lingering on his forehead, burning on his skin. 

‘Stop scrutinising him, Lestrange. It’s impolite.’ said Mulciber, but he too had taken a brief glance at Harry’s forehead. ‘Besides, Evans is a survivor of the war. It would be nothing but strange if he were to escape without a scar or two.’

‘Correction, _Benny_ ,’ Lestrange’s eyes skimmed to Benedict Mulciber, who grimaced distastefully at the pet name. ‘those are not scarring from battles.’

Harry raised a brow. ‘And how would you know that?’

‘I’ve seen things,’ said Lestrange, meeting Harry’s eyes darkly. ‘Are you curious?’

‘Not really,’ Harry deadpanned.

‘Too bad,’ Lestrange said, as if it were truly a pity. ‘but _I_ am curious to know how exactly you got that scar on your forehead. Was it Dark Magic?’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I was too young to remember. I probably fell on the ground or something.’

‘Boring!’ Lestrange sang. Avery grunted in agreement. ‘And, if I might add, a _little_ bit dodgy. Just a little.’

Harry took Rosier’s advice and ignored the other boy’s antics. 

‘Evans, you grew up with your godfather, but you haven’t mentioned your parents.’ Mulciber remarked. ‘What were their names?’

‘My father was called Oliver Evans,’ he said, remembering his conversation with Dumbledore. ‘My mother was Emmanuelle Evans, née Delacour.’

‘You’re using the past tense,’ Lestrange observed darkly. ‘Did something bad happened to mummy and daddy?’

‘My parents died when I was an infant.’ Harry explained, not letting Lestrange’s taunting voice stir him. ‘Murdered.’

 _By the person sitting next to me,_ he added grimly.

‘I am sorry to hear that. It is truly unfortunate to see a fellow classmate burdened by so much tragedy at such a young age. I imagine you are still grieving for your recent losses.’ Tom Riddle said sympathetically, playing the part of a dutiful prefect extending a benevolent hand toward the pitiful war orphan. ‘If it is any condolence, you have a new life waiting for you here within the safe walls of Hogwarts. I hope you will come to think of our House not unlike a new home.’

Each word was carefully measured, each sentence strung delicately like a lyrical melody, delivered by a rich voice sweet as honey. He sounded so genuine Harry almost wanted to believe it. Almost.

But the distant look in Riddle’s eyes never quite faded. His smile was gentle and sweet, but there was no warmth in the depth of his eyes. His gaze brushed over Harry’s like he was a speck of salt in a sea of faces. 

_Is he like this with everybody? How could they not see it?_

‘I appreciate your kind thoughts.’ said Harry. Just then, Atticus Avery’s fork dropped to the side of his third dessert plate.

‘The hour is late.’ Tom Riddle said. He was right. The Great Hall was nearly empty. Even the slowest of eaters were taking their final bites. ‘Shall we retire to the Dungeons, gentlemen? Evans, let me give you a brief tour of the castle, if you are not busy. I have Prefect duties tonight and I would love to use some fresh company on my rounds.’

‘That would be very helpful.’ Harry said. ‘I hope I will not be interfering with your responsibilities.’

‘Not at all, but that is very thoughtful of you.’ Tom Riddle smiled, showing a row of glistening white teeth. He was perfect all over. ‘Professor Slughorn, our Head of House, is more than understanding regarding this matter. He would not penalize me for guiding our newest Slytherin student.’

Riddle really had the professors wrapped around his fingers, didn’t he? With the exception of Dumbledore, they all regarded him with unnaturally high esteem. It was irritating imagine them falling for his flawless act. _A teacher’s pet._ Harry found the term highly ironic. In Riddle’s case, it was the other way around.

‘Then I’ll take up your offer,’ said Harry. 

The last thing he wanted to do was to raise suspicion by refusing Riddle’s help and walking casually around the castle the following day like he had been living here for the past 5 years.

~

The tour was tolerable. 

The mere thought of walking with Tom Riddle, of all people, alone late at night would have churned his stomach, but Harry found his uneasiness soon dissolving.

Tom Riddle was, to nobody’s surprise, a very talented speaker. Courteous and sensible, he knew exactly when to speak and what to say to make his listeners comfortable and partial to him and his voice had a magic of his own; it was soothing to hear him speak, like listening to running rivers.

Eloquent yet strangely detached, Riddle never crossed the line with Harry, never pried personal questions like the other snakes had. Conversation flowed naturally, but never digging deeper; always floating at the surface. It was like there was an invisible barrier between them, drawn by Riddle himself. 

Harry then realized that Riddle was defining the distance between them, as if silently saying: _this is the limit of our relation and you will never not cross it._

They were not meant to be very close.

Harry was completely happy with Tom Riddle’s indifference toward him, but he could not bring himself to feel relieved. It was impossible to read the other’s thoughts and thus difficult to confirm that Harry was in the clear. Riddle’s smooth, handsome traits proved to be stubbornly rigid, betraying no hint of unguarded emotions.

‘Hadrian?’ Riddle repeated. His silky voice echoed against the empty halls of the castle.

‘Er, yes?’ At that moment, Harry almost forgot his false name.

‘You look tired. Let’s end the tour here, since it is late. Come, I’ll walk you back to the Common Room,’ Riddle offered. 

Anyone would have thought he was being considerate, but Harry suspected Riddle was eager to be rid of Hadrian, a war orphan who, after having benefited from his goodwill as a prefect, was no further use for his ambitions. 

‘I remember my way back.’ Harry refused politely. ‘Thank you for your help.’

Riddle bid him goodnight. His back merged into the darkness of the corridors. Harry stared blankly at his retreating silhouette. Only Merlin knew what he was up to in the darker hours of his prefect rounds. Harry remembered grimly that it was Riddle who had found his unconscious body two nights ago in an unnamed corridor. 

They never spoke of it.

Harry was relieved to discover that Hogwarts itself did not change very much in the fifty or so years that stretched between 1943 and the present. The Dungeons were, for the most part, as he had remembered from his brief visit in the future: cold and dark. 

Their dormitory was quiet. The boys were lying in bed, the last of them nodding off to sleep. Only Rosier was still up by the desk lamp, reading a thick volume in a foreign language. 

Harry found his new belongings lodged against an empty bedpost. Most likely his. He flung himself onto the soft mattress, staring blankly at his new dormitory, taking in the green hue of the tapestry, feeling the cold damp air of the dungeons press against his skin. It was quiet. _Too quiet._

He had preferred the Gryffindor Tower by miles. He already _missed_ it. The roaring red drapes flanking the dormitory walls, the soothing warmth of the fireplace, the laughter ringing in the background and the familiar sight of his friends - _Hermione,_ _Ron, Seamus, Ginny, Neville_ …

He continued to stare. 

The gloomy window view of the Black Lake made Harry’s head drowsy with sleep. It was not long before he gave in to the sweet comfort of oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm interested in writing a time travel story where Tom does not immediately seem interested in Harry. I love how obsessive Tom can get toward Harry in Tomarry fics, as well as their unique dynamic, but I want to build up some tension before that happens. 
> 
> This chapter was fun to write, let me know what you think!
> 
> I've written out a few chapters already. The next update should be soon. See you next time~


	3. Time Travellers get Homesick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that the events of Chamber of Secret are pushed to Riddle’s Sixth year for the purpose of this story! :)

Harry woke up to the same murky sight of the Black Lake. The dim light filtering through the Dungeon windows gave no indication of the passage of time. It felt like Harry could sleep on forever.

The snakes had long risen before him. None had bothered to wake Harry up, as if collectively agreeing to adopt a dismissive attitude toward him. Harry suspected Tom Riddle had a hand behind this development. He then decided it was more likely his indifference that prompted the others to neglect their newest roommate. 

Harry didn’t mind. He would hate to see them to circle him with unwanted attention again like yesterday. 

His Time Table was handed to him by Slughorn that morning. He had been waiting for Harry at the Great Hall. With the few minutes they had before the start of class, the Head of Slytherin had given him a short word of welcome (he had been ‘occupied’ last night) and a brief explanation of his courses and whatnot. Harry could almost immediately detect a deficiency in the Potions Master’s demeanor, not that the other wasn’t being polite. To put it simply, his habit of ‘collecting’ gifted and famous students was no longer applicable to Harry in 1943. 

Dumbledore, through means unknown, had created a fake student file for Harry within a very short period of time. Under the name of Hadrian Evans, he had succeeded all OWLs with decent but not exceptional marks, which were sufficient for him to take on most N.E.W.T.s courses. 

His first class was Charms. Upon entering the bright classroom, Harry was not surprised to find the Slytherins sitting in pairs - Riddle and Mulciber then Lestrange and Avery. Rosier, on the other hand, was neighbouring a pretty Slytherin girl called Daisy Greengrass (so he remembered during the attendance call). 

There was no place for Harry.

He slipped into an empty chair next to a round-faced Hufflepuff student who reminded him of Neville. He smiled tentatively at his desk mate, hoping to make a new friend or at least an acquaintance in the class, but his efforts were not returned. The boy stared awkwardly at his feet, too nervous to look up. 

Harry really, really missed his friends. 

The other classes proceeded in a similar fashion; Harry mingling with students from other Houses and the snakes keeping to themselves. It was an unspoken arrangement that Harry soon grew accustomed to. 

The Slytherins, Harry noticed, carried a distinct air of self-importance wherever they went, but it was, unlike in Harry’s time, respected and even admired by students of the other Houses. The division between the Houses was faint at the time (even Gryffindor and Slytherin’s rivalry was tame), one of the reasons being that the Chamber of Secrets had not been open yet. A dent in the reputation of Slytherin had not been permanently etched in 1943.

Tom Riddle always sat at the front of the classroom, where he could play his model student act without constraint. He took most of the teachers’ questions asked in class, not unlike Hermione, Harry thought with mild horror. Harry noticed how the other students rarely raised their hands in class, knowing Riddle always had the superior answer. 

His Slytherin peers did not seek Harry out like they did the previous day, let alone talk to him. The closest thing to a human interaction was Rosier smiling cordially in his direction. It was like the events of the previous day were part of a distant, forgotten dream. 

From their perspective, there was nothing to gain from associating with Hadrian Evans, a poor orphan with little connections. His outspoken and sympathizing views toward Muggles and Muggleborns only enticed them to increase the distance between them.

By noon, Harry’s thoughts were confirmed. Riddle and his followers had officially lost interest in Hadrian Evans. There was no invitation to join their group at the Slytherin Table during lunch, and Harry was honestly glad for it.

For the first time in a long time, Harry was alone, friendless.

It was frustrating to have to make friends again, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to enjoy a complete lack of company.

He had made a few attempts at approaching friendly-looking students from the other Houses, but his efforts were rewarded by the horrible reality that nobody was immune to Riddle’s charms. 

‘Riddle beats everyone in Wizard Chess.’ A bespectacled boy said. ‘Yes, _even_ Malfoy and Black… truly impressive... makes me want to challenge him myself.’

Harry never asked.

‘Do you know if Tom Riddle is seeing someone?’ a Hufflepuff girl asked him, eyes fluttering in said boy’s direction. She then blushed, as if realizing she had spoken her deepest thoughts out loud. ‘I mean – I thought… with you living with him and all – you might…’

‘I heard that Riddle has photographic memory,’ a Gryffindor told Harry with a mixture of awe and resentment. ‘That explains why he aces every examination!’

Life was almost easier when everyone hated Voldemort.

By the end of the day, the novelty of Harry’s arrival had already worn off, as if spurred by Riddle’s disinterest in him. No one casted him a second glance and those who did approach him only wanted an account of what it was like to live with Tom Riddle or Edouard Rosier (they were _that_ famous). When Harry offered little word of interest, they scattered off as quickly as they came.

_No wonder Tom Riddle lost interest in him_ , they all thought.

Sitting alone at the Slytherin Table, Harry swallowed a mouthful of shepherd pie. He was neighbouring a group of 4th and 5th year students.

His eyes, despite himself, shifted to Riddle, as if having a will of their own. Tom Riddle’s presence was like a stone in his shoe, always lingering in the back of Harry’s mind, impossible to ignore.

He studied Riddle’s profile as he spoke with Edouard Rosier. The warm glow of the candles was caught in the sharp curve of his face. His skin was spotless and smooth, deserving the envy of any pubescent boy. _He looked just as perfect from close up_ , Harry thought privately, not that he would ever admit it out loud. He remembered from last night that Riddle even _smelled_ good, which was a disturbing thought to have. 

Harry noticed how the members of his circle all seemed to lean toward him, each wanting a share of Riddle’s attention, favor and approval all at once.

Just as much as how Death Eaters would follow Voldemort through the potent element of fear, Riddle’s associates were drawn to his charisma and potential like moths to the flame, each yearning for a taste of his success.

_He is a true monster._

As if having heard him, Tom Riddle’s dark eyes found Harry’s gaze for the briefest fraction of a second. Heart leaping out of his chest, Harry wrenched his eyes away, feeling his cheeks burn from an inexplicable wave of embarrassment and shame. When he dared to look up again, Tom Riddle had long resumed his conversation with his associates, smiling flawlessly.

‘It was good while it lasted, hm?’ a sand haired boy drawled next to him, pointing his chin lazily in the direction of Tom Riddle’s group. 

He was about Harry’s height, but his face retained the youthfulness of a boy who had just been touched by puberty. A 4th year, Harry guessed. The innocence of boyhood, however, did not quite reach his eyes. 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Harry said stiffly, though he had a faint idea.

‘You lost the favor of Tom Riddle. The attention was short-lived, but it hooks you on like nothing else.’ the boy said darkly, words meant to cut deep. ‘I’ve been watching you looking in their direction several times, looking lost like an abandoned puppy.’

‘You are making a lot of assumptions here.’ Harry responded coldly.

‘Am I?’

‘Let me correct you. One, I never earned Riddle’s favor, and two, I don’t have any intention to.’

‘You should,’ the younger boy said, raising a brow at the unexpected response. ‘I know you are new here, so maybe you haven’t figured how powerful Riddle’s group is…’

‘Or maybe I’m not interested.’ suggested Harry.

‘I don’t buy it.’ the boy smirked. ‘Why would you sort into the proud and ambitious House of Slytherin in the first place, if not wanting for _more_?’

‘Beats me.’ Harry shoved a piece of carrot into his lips. ‘Maybe the Sorting Hat is going bollocks.’

The boy considered him with renewed interest. ‘I don’t think I’ve introduced myself. I’m Leo Nott,’ he said, stretching out an expectant hand. 

‘Hadrian Evans,’ he said, shaking the hand. ‘But you already know that.’ 

‘Of course,’ Nott returned, smirking again. ‘You’re more interesting than I thought.’ 

‘Er, thanks?’ said Harry, not knowing what to make of Nott’s comment. 

‘Now, we were talking about Riddle, weren’t we?’ 

Harry found himself leaning in more than he should. 

Leo Nott was a real gossip. This, Harry would later find out, was a commonly shared trait among the Slytherins. Information was shoved in Harry’s face, almost too quickly for his mind to process, but it became clear that Tom Riddle was a living legend at Hogwarts. 

He listened to the stories, not being able to help himself, with genuine curiosity. If Harry was a side character in 1943 Hogwarts, then Tom Riddle was the protagonist. The Golden Boy.

Orphaned and raised among Muggles, Tom Riddle rose to the very top of Slytherin's food chain against all odds through pure genius and unmatched charisma. It was like listening to a feel-good story, except that it seemed to actually work on everyone, as if demanding: _Who could possibly have the audacity of not liking Tom Riddle?_

But legend and myths had a habit of conveniently leaving out details, didn’t they?

_Only winners write history,_ Harry thought darkly, and he shuddered to think what Tom Riddle had done in the shadows to have his record scrubbed so clean and spotless.

~

A few uneventful days passed, each day stretched long like the other, blurred by their shared emptiness.

In 1943, the passage of time was strange. With the imminent danger of Voldemort gone, Harry found himself wandering aimlessly about the castle, experiencing a freedom that he did not know. 

Yet he felt restless. Trapped. He was supposed to do something. Not a single year he had spent at Hogwarts did he not feel some form of mortal danger pointing his way. He had always been too busy trying _not_ to die. There was always something to run from, something to search for – always something to _do_. Doing nothing was a different kind of crisis and Harry was not good at coping with it.

Having no friends was not helping at all.

To Harry, who was craving for human interaction, the only event of any interest throughout his day was talking to Nott, who waited faithfully for Harry at the Slytherin Table every evening. They developed a strange companionship, consisted 90% of Nott talking and Harry listening (or at least pretending to).

Nott was very chatty, even by Slytherin’s standards, and always had new gossip to fill Harry in with. Harry had never been one to enjoy pointless chatter, but Nott also happened to be a great source of information, especially in matters concerning Tom Riddle and he did not mind indulging Harry.

Harry discovered that since Riddle’s arrival at Hogwarts, the hierarchal dynamics of Slytherin had forever shifted. His influence was rising through the years – _and still rising today, they say_ – and one by one, witches and wizards in possession of superior wit, talent or powerful backgrounds had flocked to Riddle. Among them were those who had once doubted him or scorned his background.

Those who did not yield – and they were rare – gave in to Tom Riddle’s advances in the end, seduced sooner or later by his sweet demeanor and fierce potential, though Harry suspected some darker methods at work. 

This short list of people included Edouard Rosier, who, to Harry’s surprise, had resisted Riddle the most before finally becoming a trusted member of his circle. It was horrifying to picture the blonde boy, who had seemed so passive the previous day, challenging Tom Riddle in the past. 

_He collects them like trophies._

One evening, Nott was fixated on Edouard Rosier, clearly having exhausted his knowledge of Tom Riddle.

It turned out that Edouard Rosier’s family was involved with Grindelwald’s movement. His Aunt, Vinda Rosier, was Grindelwald’s right-in-arms, responsible for countless massacres across Europe.

‘But you know that already, don’t you Evans?’ Nott added, fishing for a reaction from Harry and disappointed to find none.

Harry privately thought that Rosier’s circumstances were not unlike Draco Malfoy’s in his own time. It was true that history had a way of repeating itself.

Nott then seemed keen on painting Edouard Rosier as a serial dater, convinced that he was 'dating' Greengrass, but ‘playing’ with Carrow. Harry could not care less about such things.

His attention naturally shifted to Tom Riddle, who was sitting a few seats away with important-looking 7th Years. Though Riddle was far from the eldest in the group, they all seem to regard him with respect, as if looking up to a superior. A pretty Slytherin girl just giggled at something Riddle said, but Harry was too far to hear it.

‘You’re not listening, Evans.’ Nott sighed, shaking his head in disapproval.

‘Sorry,’ Harry said absent-mindedly. ‘I’m not very interested in rumours and gossip.’

‘No, you’re not,’ Nott said pointedly. ‘Not unless it concerns Tom Riddle.’

Harry stared.

‘Are you still going to tell me you don’t want to gain his favor?’ Nott said, smirking. ‘Don’t lie. There’s no point.’

‘Nope,’ said Harry firmly. ‘But I’d wager _you_ do.’

‘Maybe,’ Nott said vaguely. His expression was unreadable at that moment, which frustrated Harry. ‘But I’m curious what’s behind your reasoning. People like you are… _rare_.’

‘What’s it to you?’ Harry said, not liking the look in Nott’s eye. 

‘You know me. I’m an inquisitive person by nature.’ he said, smirking again and leaning forward. ‘Why so defensive, Evans?’

‘Well, it’s hardly any of your business. And if you want to get closer to Riddle, you’re honestly wasting your time–’ 

Harry paused, eyes widening in realization. What was Nott doing? Why was Nott spending his time talking with Harry? 

‘I was beginning to have my doubts, but perhaps the Sorting Hat is not so senile after all.’ Nott said, rising from the bench. ‘See you around, Evans.’

Harry stared, mouth gaping despite himself. 

_What was that?_

~

Later when he returned to the Dungeons, after having spent a few hours studying in the Library (he had to catch up with the week of class he had missed), Harry found himself thinking back to his conversation with Leo Nott.

Even now he was no less perplexed by Nott’s words, not understanding what exactly he had meant and not knowing what he had wanted from Harry. Indignation rose in his chest. He knew one thing: they would not talk again.

Harry really missed the simplicity of Gryffindor. No beating around the bush, no twists and turns in the shadows, no hidden meanings; everything had been so straightforward, and he took it for granted. 

And above all else, he missed Ron and Hermione. The warmth they occupied in his heart grew emptier by the day, leaving him hollow and cold. 

Here in 1943 Harry was truly alone.

Around him, the Slytherins shifted quietly. Harry did not miss how they rarely spoke in his presence, treating him deliberately like an outsider. Indeed, when Harry walked in on Lestrange and Mulciber chatting eagerly on a subject the other day, they quickly lowered their voices and stared at him blatantly, stupidly aware of him only at such times.

_Not even trying to hide it_ , he thought, but he supposed the clear division was for the best.

Tom Riddle, who did not have Prefect duties that night, was undoing his tie and preparing for sleep. His bed was adjacent to Harry’s, close enough for the faint trace of honey to reach Harry’s lungs. 

It was the only time of the day when Harry could see Tom Riddle from such a clear angle. The other times, his view was either blocked by his inner circle, or obstructed by students and professors alike looking for a quick chat. In fact, Harry rarely saw Tom Riddle unaccompanied in the castle. This was probably because when Riddle wanted to be alone, he was always out of sight and nobody knew what exactly he was doing.

After that one time in the Great Hall, Harry had gotten craftier at his observations. He had learned to keep his head low and brush his gaze carelessly across the room, eyes pausing only long enough to catch a glimpse of Riddle and never lingering for too long. 

If Riddle noticed, he did not show it. 

That night, Harry dreamed.

For the first time in a long time, he visited the graveyard. The long endless corridors came next, trapping him in darkness. He could practically _feel_ the stoned floor as it echoed below his feet with each step, and when Bellatrix’s laughter came ringing in his ear, he was staring at Sirius’ face, his lines still laced with laughter. A flash of green came next.

Harry woke up in a fit, throat gasping for air, cold sweat sticking his hair to his face. His eyes searched frantically for his surroundings, his mind still shaken within the boundary between dream and reality.

The first thing he noticed was the strong, potent aroma of honey, filling every inch of his lungs – _dangerously_ sweet. 

‘Someone shut him up!’ grunted Avery in the background. 

‘Is he awake?’ He recognized Rosier’s voice. 

‘Evans.’ Harry blinked. Bending down on him, Tom Riddle’s face was alarmingly close. Inches away. He could feel the other's breath ghost over his cheeks. ‘Are you all right?’

‘It’s 3 in the morning,’ Mulciber moaned, his voice still glazed with sleep.

‘ _Sirius! Sirius! Sirius!_ ’ Lestrange said, in a baby voice. Then came the high, cold laughter. _Bellatrix’s_ laughter. ‘Who’s Sirius? His _boyfriend?_ ’

He could hear a few chuckles in the background. Harry saw red.

‘Shut up! Shut up!’ he heard himself shouting. ‘Just _shut up_ , Lestrange!’

‘Make me,’ Lestrange said, dark eyes inviting.

At that moment, Harry hated Lestrange so much the whole world seemed to focus on the two of them. Before he knew it, his hand was reaching for his wand, which was tucked beneath his pillow. His movement was immediately blocked by someone. Harry whipped his head around in fury. He must have looked like a wild animal, but he did not care.

‘ _Don’t touch me_!’

Tom Riddle removed his hands.

‘Don’t do something you will regret later, Evans.’ he warned softly. The distant expression was now gone, replaced by something else. _Surprise? Displeasure?_ Harry could not tell. For a few seconds, Harry stared at him, as if seeing Riddle for the very first time.

‘ _Fine_ ,’ Harry dropped his wand to the side of his bed, his anger receding but far from gone. Lestrange giggled in the background. ‘Only if you make him _shut up_.’

Tom Riddle considered him for a moment. ‘Not that Lestrange hasn’t crossed the line, Evans, but your request is… unreasonable. I don’t control my friends.’

_Oh yes you do, you two-faced puppeteer. You slimy, manipulative evil –_

He could feel his anger for Lestrange fleeting, only to be replaced by a burning passion for the Riddle. At that moment, all his problems and frustrations from the past few days focused like a laser beam on Tom Riddle – _perfect_ Tom Riddle, whose charming smile and polished voice were always impeccably in place, never wavering from their carefully assigned arrangement. For a split moment, Harry wanted to lunge at him and taste the satisfaction of seeing that mask shatter to pieces, but he decided against the thought.

‘I’ll use a silencing charm next time.’ Harry said, looking away. ‘Sorry for the racket.’

He could feel eyes burning holes on his back, but he ignored it. If Tom Riddle or the others had something to say, Harry did not hear it, having quickly put up a wall of _Silencio_ between them.

Harry did not fall back asleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hopefully, I was able to write everyone in character :)


	4. Quidditch is the best Stress Relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might not be able to update next week because school is starting and I've also been working on a new fic :) Enjoy!

At first light, Harry marched toward the Quidditch Pitch.

In his right arm was an antiquated broomstick even by 1943’s standards. He had found it in a pile of forgotten objects earlier in the Room of Requirement. The tip of the brush was thoroughly splintered, like brittle hair splitting at the ends, and the handle was wobbly, but the broom was functional and that was all that mattered to Harry.

Soaring through the air and whipping across the towering poles of the Quidditch goalposts, Harry felt the early autumn breeze kiss his fluttering robes as he manoeuvred the broomstick. He could feel his problems, his frustrations and his anger against Riddle diminishing, one by one swept away by the wind… floating behind him in the air… forgotten.

He was heading downward, building momentum with the drop and facing the approaching terrain below head on, when he pulled on the handle at the last moment. He witnessed stretches of green grass sweeping past him just beneath his legs. Too late and he would have crashed into the ground, possibly breaking an arm or a leg, but it was that split second of decision making and quick reflexes that made Harry taste the thrill of airborne, waking him up more than any eye-opening potion.

At that moment, Harry truly feel _alive_ , more alive than he had been in the past few days.

He steadily rose from the grounds, putting some distance between himself and the grass below. He looked up at the sight before him in awe. It was exhilarating to see Hogwarts from this height, and he stopped in midair as he watched a string of golden rose light caress the tip of the castle’s tallest tower.

The break of dawn was quite a sight to behold, Harry thought. It was even more so up there 30 or 40 feet in the air, where all Harry’s problems seemed so distant and insignificant.

‘Nice view, right?’ shouted a voice from below. Harry looked down, eyes squinting at a single dot in the green landscape. There someone waving at him, urging him to come down. Harry obliged; he dove steadily until he reached ground level and flung his legs off the broomstick.

It was a Slytherin student, whose strong build towered well over Harry. The boy had a vivid set of blue eyes and a sharp, pronounced jawline hinting at adulthood. He was likely a Seventh Year, Harry thought.

‘Good morning.’ the boy said courteously. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see anyone on the fields this early. You can imagine how pleasantly surprised I am to come across your flying.’

‘Good morning. Er, h-how long have you been watching?’ Harry said, feeling heat rising to his cheeks.

‘Long enough to want you on the team.’ the older boy said.

‘On the team?’ Harry repeated.

‘That’s right.’

‘Oh.’ He responded rather stupidly. ‘Are you part of the Slytherin Quidditch team?’

‘That I am,’ the older boy said, stretching out a hand. ‘Winky Crockett, Keeper and Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team. Happy to make your acquaintance.’

‘Hadrian Evans,’ he said, taking the hand. ‘Likewise.’

‘I can see that you are no stranger to flying, but have you ever played before?’

‘I suppose, yeah.’ He answered vaguely, scratching the back of his neck. ‘as a Seeker, but not very seriously.’

‘Well, let me tell you something, Evans. We have been running low on Seekers lately and you happen to have just the right build and, from what I can tell, very good reflexes. I would really appreciate it if you can come in Saturday morning for the Quidditch team trial. How does that sound?’

‘Er, I’ll think about it, but I can’t be sure...’

‘I hope you will consider it,’ said Crockett earnestly. ‘We could really use the help.’

‘Okay,’ said Harry and felt slightly ashamed. He was the Gryffindor’s captain in his time, but he was not nearly half as invested as Crockett in his team. He quickly changed the subject. ‘Um, what are you doing so early out here, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Training,’ said Crockett. Next to him was a duffel bag with assorted equipment for various exercises, not limited to Quidditch drills. ‘Professor Slughorn put in a good word for me for a Professional Quidditch School. I have a scholarship waiting for me once I graduate from Hogwarts, and I hope to measure up to the expectations.’

Harry had never seen such a diligent Slytherin Quidditch player in his own time.

‘That’s very impressive. I can see that the Slytherin Team is in competent hands.’ Harry said, and he meant every word. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks.’ Crockett returned. ‘I could ask the same to you, Evans. What brings you out this early in the morning?’

‘I needed some fresh air.’ Harry said, and privately added, _to clear my mind._

‘I understand what you mean.’ Crockett said and Harry supposed he really did, being the serious Quidditch player he was. ‘Well, I won’t overstay my welcome. It was a pleasure to meet you, Evans. I hope I will see you on Saturday.’

After returning from his short flying session, Harry was relieved to find most of the Slytherins still slumbering in his dormitory _._ It was only 6:45, and only Tom Riddle’s bed was emptied, bedsheet neatly folded to the side of his pillow (what a perfectionist). He must have departed not long ago, judging by the smell of honey still lingering in the air.

Harry carefully slid his new broomstick below his bed, not wanting the others to notice that he had procured himself one. He could well imagine Lestrange’s hysteria upon discovering such a battered looking thing in Harry’s belongings.

Lying on his back, Harry’s thoughts naturally shifted to his encounter with the Slytherin Captain. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted by Crockett’s offer. There was, after all, nothing else he could compare to the feeling of flying. 

Joining the Slytherin Team could stir up the snakes’ attention, but Harry reasoned that the damage couldn’t be _that_ great. After all, Tom Riddle did not seem like someone who thought much of trivial matters such as sports and entertainment. Didn’t Riddle have better things to do, anyway? _Like planning to take over the world._

The trials, however, were still in another two days and Harry told himself he would decide by then whether to participate or not.

Having only slept 4 hours last night, Harry could feel that the few rounds of flying maneuvers were physically taxing on him. Fatigue was catching up with his body and concentrating on the weight of his eyelids.

Feeling a strong spell of drowsiness overcome him, Harry closed his eyes. He knew he had Potions class first thing in the morning – _double_ Potions – but just for a while, he wanted to rest. Just for a moment, he wanted to savour that sweet state of unconsciousness... mellow and tempting like honey…

 _Just for a bit…_ were his last thoughts before he drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

When he opened his eyes again, Harry found himself alone in the dormitory.

Sitting up in bed, he was dazed to discover that it was already 11 o’clock! He had missed his first two classes with Slughorn. He dashed across the Dungeons, hardly conscious that he was still on an empty stomach and barely made it on time for Transfiguration class.

Harry was panting when he arrived at the classroom entrance. Tom Riddle was sitting with Lestrange today. He did not even look up when Harry entered the room and Harry was secretly glad for it, considering his awkward outburst last night. He took the seat next to a quiet Ravenclaw boy who only had eyes for the teacher. The substitute for Transfiguration had already taken over the course.

There was little change in the Slytherins’ attitude toward him, if any at all, after that awkward incident in the middle of the night. They were as distant as ever with him, as if stressing on the clear distinction between themselves and Harry, possibly repulsed by his lack of punctuality.

Still, Harry was slightly disappointed that none of them had approached him for missing out on class. It was the very least they could do, and Harry hated the feeling of disorientation (he was used to having access to Hermione’s notes). For a moment, he even considered asking Riddle for his notes, since he was a prefect after all, but quickly decided against it, with his stupid pride in the way.

By the end of the period, it was generally agreed among the students that the substitute teacher – Professor Goodway – was a bit of a joke, especially in comparison to the genius of Dumbledore.

Harry, who did not forget his unpleasant encounter with Nott the other day, reached for the Kitchen. He was not particularly avoiding the younger boy, but he could not bring himself to dine at the Slytherin Table, not that he had anything against the Great Hall – no, in fact, the thousands of candles that floated above him were a warm reminder of home, but the hundreds of indifferent faces below were a painful reminder that he was a stranger to this time.

The House-Elves were very polite and helpful, proving to be far superior company to any of the snakes. Harry could recognize a few familiar faces when he spoke to them and that was a comforting thought.

The Room of Requirement soon became a favorite destination for Harry. He spent many evenings alone in its safe walls, taking advantage of the different functions offered by the Common-and-Go room. He came back to the Dungeons often late in the evening, sometimes even after curfew and during those nights he thought longingly of his Invisibility Cloak.

His late adventures further limited the time spent in the company of his Slytherin peers, which was a relief for everyone, really. In fact, Harry rarely saw Tom Riddle outside of classrooms, and when he crawled back into the dormitory in the quieter hours of the night, he often found the other’s bed empty.

No smell of honey.

~

Saturday morning came too soon.

Having overslept again, Harry fled the Dungeons, shabby broomstick in hand. His feet carried him as if they had a mind of their own, and before he knew it, he was standing in the grass field of the Quidditch Pitch, facing a circle of Slytherin students

‘I’m glad you could make it, Evans.’ greeted Winky Crockett from the center of the crowd.

‘I hope I’m not too late,’ Harry panted, still recovering from his sprint.

‘You missed the trial for Beaters, but you’re right on time to see the Chasers in their element.’ A girl said standing next to Crockett, looking rather important despite her small stature.

Harry sighed in relief.

‘Well, well… what have we got here.’ Pushing past the small crowd was Randolph Lestrange. ‘Look, _Atty_ , it’s Evans!’

Atticus Avery stood stupidly at his side and grunted.

‘Yeah, it’s me.’ Harry mumbled, mentally groaning from the sight of the two.

‘I see that you are acquainted with Lestrange.’ Crockett observed. ‘He was our Beater last year, along with Avery here.’

Harry shouldn’t be surprised. Lestrange and Avery looked like a pair of Bludgers themselves, rivalling even the Weasley twins’ lethal combination. 

‘What is that?’ said Avery, with the vocabulary of a 3-year-old toddler, and pointed his massive finger at the ancient-looking broom in Harry’s hand.

‘Don’t tell me that’s a – _broomstick_?’ Lestrange’s eyes looked that they could pop out of their eye sack any moment. He then doubled over and shrieked with laughter. With Tom Riddle out of the picture, he had no reason to hold himself back, did he? ‘Aren’t you full of surprises, Evans? I didn’t know you collected _antiques_.’

‘That’s not funny,’ Crockett said in Harry’s defense.

‘Oh, but it _is_!’ Lestrange insisted.

‘Nice guess, Lestrange.’ Harry said coolly. ‘Actually, I happened to break into a Quidditch Museum the other day and stole this.’

He earned a soft chuckle from Crockett and the petite Slytherin girl.

Lestrange looked highly amused.

‘All jokes aside, it does look rather… _decrepit_.’ Crockett said delicately. ‘We might need to change that once you land the Seeker position.’

‘ _if_ ,’ Harry corrected, but Crockett simply smirked at him.

Slytherins really had a thing with smirking, didn’t they? It was like their facial muscles refused the idea of smiling normally.

‘ _Oooooh_ , so Evans is the one you were talking about, Cap. How unexpected.’ Lestrange drawled, then turned his head to meet Harry’s gaze. ‘Well, why don’t you be a good boy and show us some tricks?’

Harry raised a brow, not liking Lestrange’s particularly chatty demeanor.

‘That will come later,’ Crockett said before blowing into his whistle. ‘Chasers are up next!’

Harry was secretly glad he would be never finding himself up against Lestrange and Avery in a real Quidditch match.

They were like ticking bombs on the field. One by one, the Slytherins running for the Chaser position dropped like flies… incapable of keeping up with the wild Bludgers thrown in their direction. Many were destined for the Hospital Wing, Harry realized with slight horror, and only a select few persisted under the abuse of the Beaters.

The short Slytherin girl from before – Miranda Ackermann – nearly escaped a well-aimed Bludger, her small frame a decisive advantage at such times. Quaffle pressed tightly against her chest, she sped through an opposing player and scored. It happened so fast Harry would have missed it if he blinked.

‘She is our very best.’ Harry heard the captain say next to him and he agreed.

Next, a 3rd year boy – Neil Lament, was it? – picked up the Quaffle, flying dangerously close to Lestrange and Avery, but ducking from their movements like he could predict every single one of them. He tossed the Quaffle to Alphard Black – _Sirius’ Uncle_ , but a 7th Year at the time. Through pure masculine vitality, Black managed to fly to the center of the field unscathed, knocking off his opponents in the way, and threw the Quaffle through an unattended hoop.

When it was the Seekers’ turn to fly, Harry noticed a striking drop in the overall morale. Many of the candidates were First or Second Years, looking downward and intimidated. Those who appeared a few years older seemed to lack enthusiasm, clearly not competing for their first-choice position.

Harry soon noticed after taking off that his broom was putting him at a disadvantage. Deficiencies that he did not realize the other morning appeared one after the other. It came to his attention that his broom wobbled awkwardly at turning points, and, even under a tight clutch, it struggled to make a straight line.

Lestrange and Avery were tireless Beaters.

They swung their bats vigorously, looking almost more menacing than the Bludgers themselves. There was no time to search for the Snitches – none at all. Bludgers came flying from all directions one after the other, giving them no rest. The other candidates looked utterly frightened, and they had reason to. A First Year appeared to be on the verge of tears.

‘Hey, Lestrange!’ Upon hearing his name, the dark-haired boy whipped his head around. ‘Take it easy on the kids, won’t you?’

Harry should have known that everything sounded like a challenge to Lestrange’s ears.

‘Sure, if that means taking _you_ on.’ Lestrange smirked.

Harry barely ducked in time from a Bludger intended for his head. Lestrange was really going in for the kill, wasn’t he? As if they had had an unspoken agreement, Avery busied himself with the rest of the group, leaving Lestrange on Harry’s tail.

Harry hated the thought of facing Lestrange’s wrath but at least he was more qualified for it than his younger counterparts, having faced a tampered Bludger in his second year and come out alive to tell the tale.

But it was not easy to evade Lestrange.

He was like a particularly hungry mosquito, flying around Harry in circles and impossible to shake off. As much as Harry hated to admit it, Lestrange was a very talented Beater. His Bludgers came from blind angles, pointing at places that were intended to hurt and targeting damages that were meant to count.

After a few trips around the Quidditch Pitch, Harry found himself gradually growing accustomed to Lestrange’s chaotic pursuit.

He was glaring against the rising pre-noon sun, evading another speeding Bludger, when the familiar glint of the Golden Snitch winked playfully at him a few feet above him. He would have missed it if he blinked a mere second later.

Lestrange must have noticed the sudden change in Harry’s course, as he no longer swung his bat purposelessly. Lestrange was going in for a final, precise strike, aiming for the vulnerable second before a Seeker’s hand touched the Golden Snitch, but Harry was far from inexperienced.

Head facing the blue cloudless sky, eyes squinting against the blinding rays of the sun, Harry pulled on the handle of his tattered broomstick until it pointed vertically. As he was beginning to build speed, Harry stretched his left arm out, reaching far into the sky, only to retract it when a perfectly aimed Bludger swept past him. A split second later, he fisted his right hand into the air.

He felt the cool metallic texture of the Snitch’s wings fluttering against his fingers. Harry’s face broke into a smile. This was why he loved Quidditch so much.

A roaring cheer came from beneath. When he landed on the grass field a few moments later, Harry realized that everyone was staring at him.

‘That was _brilliant_ ,’ said a Fourth-Year student. ‘I never saw someone surviving Lestrange for that long… and coming out alive!’

‘I now see why you were so fixated on Evans,’ Miranda Ackermann said to the Captain.

‘Some people are born to fly, and Evans is without doubt one of them.’ Winky Crockett winked at Harry. ‘That was a nice catch, by the way, nice and clean, just the way it should be.’

‘Thanks,’ said Harry, grinning despite himself.

Just then, Lestrange dismounted his broom next to him, looking strangely satisfied for someone who had not landed a single hit on his target.

‘I didn’t know you had it in you, Evans.’ he said, and that was the closest thing to a compliment one could hear from Randolph Lestrange’s lips. ‘That was a really fun chase. We should do it again sometime.’

‘Thanks, but I’d rather not.’ Harry said, and the others laughed.

The next day, the members of the Slytherin Quidditch Team were decided. This caused excitation in the Slytherin Common Room that would last throughout the entire day.

_Slytherin Quidditch Team:_

_Captain and Keeper: Winky Crockett_

_Chasers: Miranda Ackermann, Alphard Black and Neil Lament_

_Beaters: Randolph Lestrange and Atticus Avery_

_Seeker: Hadrian Evans_

‘Hadrian _who_?’ a voice said, not recognizing the name until somebody pointed at Harry.

Heads quickly turned in his direction, eyes eager to inspect the Seeker representing their House. That was Harry’s cue to withdraw from the swarm of students, only to run into the Captain himself.

‘Good morning, Evans.’ Winky Crockett greeted with a smirk. ‘I take it you have learned the good news?’

‘Er, yeah.’ He said, running a hand through his hair.

‘Congratulations, you earned it.’ Said Miranda Ackermann, standing by Crockett’s side, two heads shorter.

‘Thanks,’

‘Say, are you busy right now?’ 

By noon, Harry was warmly acquainted with Winky Crockett’s group of friends, who were all 7th years. Harry was shocked to discover that Miranda Ackermann, the ace of the Slytherin team, had freshly turned 17 despite looking like a 4th year student at best.

‘Prepare yourself to be drilled to death by this handsome Devil.’ A round-faced boy by the name of Thomas Vanity said, tapping Crockett’s bulky pecs. ‘You’ll hate him at the end of the season.’

‘Oh please, don’t scare him off just _yet_.’ Crockett smirked at his friend. ‘Besides, my drills are not _that_ dreadful. I always have my teammates’ best interest in mind and try to find the perfect balance between challenge and efficacy.’

Thomas Vanity glanced at Harry and wrinkled his nose. ‘Sounds terrible, right?’

Harry laughed. The truth was that he was thrilled to begin training for Quidditch. It felt like a heavy weight lifted off his shoulder to finally find a new motivation, however trifle, in 1943.

‘You better not run late for practise like you did for the trials, Evans.’ Miranda Ackermann warned, but not unkindly. ‘We happen to take them very seriously.’

‘Damn right.’ Crockett nodded in approval.

‘Oh, and we ought to find you a new broomstick.’ Miranda Ackermann remarked. ‘That old battered thing looked like it could snap in two if you weighed any heavier.’

Harry agreed; he could really use a better broom.

Just like that, Harry experienced a strange, short-lived moment of fame. Walking down the hallways, he could see heads turning in his way and hear whispers trailing behind his back.

_‘Look, that’s Slytherin’s new Seeker.’_

_‘I heard that he stood his ground against Lestrange one-on-one without a trip to the Hospital Wing.’_

_‘He looks a bit scrawny, but I suppose he is talented.’_

Of course, the fleeting recognition that Harry experienced was not enough to attract Tom Riddle’s attention. 

At the center of the Slytherin Common Room was the Devil himself, sitting comfortably into a green embroidered armchair and around him, a select few members of his circle and a handful of important looking 5th and 7th year students.

Harry noticed how Tom Riddle rarely rose from his seat, like a King on his Throne, and it was always those around him who shifted, as if they were attendants that came on his cue. And yet they did not mind it – no, quite far from it; they enjoyed Riddle’s attention, however small or divided it was. 

Harry could not blame them.

Tom Riddle was, evil tendencies aside, a very engaging conversationalist and a presence too interesting to ignore. And to be on the receiving end of his attention – that was like being high on a particularly addictive substance: never enough and always thinking of next time.

Even now Harry could observe a dozen pair of eyes around the room fixed on the handsome Prefect, burning with the desire to grow closer to him, but not daring to take the leap, as if by fear of crossing an invisible line.

It was no wonder that Riddle did not think much of Harry’s staring habit, if he had noticed it at all. With so many willing to shower him with admiration, why would he single out Harry, the friendless and poor war orphan? That one time at the Great Hall must have been a fluke.

Just then, Harry noticed a familiar figure joining their circle, leaning in toward Tom Riddle’s ears and speaking lowly. Whatever they were talking about, it seemed to be interesting, as Tom Riddle’s lips curled slightly. When the silhouette shifted sideways, Harry was infuriated to recognize Leo Nott’s smug face. The younger boy had clearly achieved his ambitions to approach Tom Riddle.

As if listening to Harry’s inner thoughts, Nott turned around and held his gaze, and had the audacity to _wink_ at him, as if saying: _Look at the difference between us now!_

Harry looked away, feeling resentment swelling in his chest, as well as a small sensation not unlike _envy_ that had been slumbering in the darkest layers of his consciousness, but steadily rising to the surface, no longer possible to ignore.

No, he was _not_ going to start longing for Tom Riddle’s attention like the others. Never. He hated Riddle! He hated everything about the Slytherin boy; the sweet smile than never quite reached his eyes, the fake mask that fooled everyone, those indifferent unreadable eyes, and above all, Harry hated how Riddle made him feel so – _conflicted_ without even doing anything!

And he hated that that tiny part of himself that was so bloody _hyperaware_ of the other, unable to look away from Riddle, unable to live with the fact that the teenaged Dark Lord was disinterested in him. It was as if Harry was _nothing_ without being the Boy-Who-Lived and he _hated_ having that thought!

Frustrated at himself, Harry got to his feet, deciding that he needed fresh air. Or maybe he should blast some dummies in the Room of Requirement. On his way out of the Common Room, he caught the eyes of, yet again, Nott, who had been observing him with amusement.

Harry couldn't do anything but scowl at him, knowing that the boy proved to have the upper hand, then and now, in a game he still did not understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the Quidditch part of the chapter wasn't too horrible. I hate writing action lol.


	5. Harry, it's your lucky day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be my last post before I go into a semi hibernation state because of school. I'll try my best to write as often as I can, but I can no longer promise a regular update schedule.
> 
> BTW, I really appreciate all the lovely comments you guys left! <3 they never fail to make me smile
> 
> Enjoy chapter 5!

A week had passed since Harry’s arrival in 1943. Seven days of pretending to be Hadrian Evans. Seven days of sleeping in the same room as his future enemy. Seven days and yet it felt like an eternity to Harry.

The excitement that came with the Quidditch Trials soon dissipated and though Harry was on speaking terms with many of the Seventh Year students, he found himself alone most of the time, still shifting from partner to partner in classes and spending the long hours in between holed up in the Come and Go Room.

That morning, they were having Potions with the Gryffindors and Harry was sitting next to a Slytherin student for a change.

She was a good-looking girl with golden locks that poured to her waist. Harry forgot her name, but he knew that she was a Prefect in their year, and remembered that she often blended with students of the other Houses.

Tom Riddle, like always, was sitting at the front row, listening attentively to Slughorn’s speech, long fingers flipping through the current edition of _Advanced Potion Making_. Harry looked as his own copy with slight dislike, preferring by far his tattered version with the Half-Blood Prince’s untidy, but helpful annotations.

 _But this is 1943_ , he reminded himself, and he had firmly decided not to stir any form of unnecessary attention, including overachieving in classes (which he rarely did in his own time anyway).

Harry was listening absently to the highs and lows of the Potion Master’s voice, when a Gryffindor student at the back of the classroom asked a question.

‘Aha, I was waiting for someone to notice! This curious little potion here, ladies and gentlemen, is known as _Felix Felicis_! _’_

Harry’s eyes lit up with realization. His eyes shot to the cauldron Slughorn’s finger was pointing to, in which a golden fluid was shimmering.

‘Does anyone know what Felix Felicis is?’ Slughorn said, and Harry could see the older man turning expectantly in Riddle’s direction.

To nobody’s surprise, Riddle’s hand shot to the air.

‘Yes, Tom?’ Slughorn nodded.

‘Felix Felicis,’ drawled Riddle in a polished voice. ‘more commonly known as liquid luck, is a potion that, if brewed correctly, gives the drinker good fortune in all their endeavours.’

The words seemed to be dully pulled out of a textbook, but from Tom Riddle’s lips, they sounded bright like birds humming a spring song.

‘Excellent, Tom!’ Slughorn smiled approvingly at the Slytherin Prefect. ‘Take ten points for Slytherin! Now, I can imagine that you are all wondering what Felix has to do with today’s lesson.’

The students shifted excitedly in their seats. Harry could feel his own pulse racing. He strongly suspected someone would be walking away with that golden liquid in their hands by the end of the class.

‘You will not be disappointed.’ The Potions master smiled, before announcing, ‘I will be awarding a tiny bottle of this wonderful, but tricky potion to a single student by the end of today’s class.’

Harry could feel eagerness escalating in the classroom, like bubbles gargling and rising at the surface of a cauldron. His gaze reached Tom Riddle, whose eyes flashed a distinct look of fixation – guarded, of course, but his distant expression was gone.

‘Now that I have gotten your attention,’ Slughorn said, looking very satisfied. ‘please turn to page 10 of your textbook. Today we will be attempting to brew a notoriously difficult potion.’

The sound of rustling paper echoed in the dungeon.

‘We have more than an hour left to our class, which is enough time for you to make an attempt at the Draught of Living Dead. Like I said, it is a most complex procedure – oh yes, without doubt among the most difficult potions you will attempt at Hogwarts, so I am not expecting a perfect brew from anybody, though I will not be surprised to see one produced by our prodigy student.’

Harry could see Tom Riddle smiling innocently at Slughorn, who had paused to give him an approving glance. Ugh. 

‘As you may have guessed,’ Slughorn continued. ‘the person who does best will win little Felix here. Now, begin!’

The students reached for the cupboards like hungry hounds on the hunt, driven by the desire to taste the flavor of luck. Only Harry stood awkwardly at his desk, staring at his book in hesitation… 

Harry considered his predicament: stumbling into 1943, sorting into Slytherin, sleeping in the same room as Tom Riddle and his future Death Eaters… if there was one thing that he knew for certain, it was that he was very, _very_ unlucky. And if luck refused to be on his side, then he ought to _earn_ it.

A wild, hopeful, possibly hopeless idea suddenly occurred to him: maybe Felix could even help him get back to his own time, if he used it well.

Harry stared at the instructions _._ The Half-Blood Prince’s annotations were still fresh in his mind. It was almost like he could _see_ them inscribed into the pages of his new _Advanced Potion Making_.

He made his decision.

Tension was building in the cool air of the dungeon. In between stirring, weighing and adding ingredients to their concoctions, the students were also busy peering down at others’ cauldrons. There was no such thing as privacy in Potions class, where one’s work was completely exposed to teacher and fellow students alike.

Tom Riddle’s cauldron was by far the most advanced, having attained the halfway stage description of ‘smooth, black colored liquid’ within a short period of time. This much Harry had expected. Riddle was not called a prodigy for no reason.

Harry, who had been the last to procure his ingredients, was earning disapproving looks from most of his classmates. His potion was far from the most progressive and a few students noticed that he was clearly not following the guidelines, nor their order. The Slytherin girl next to him, however, looked mildly curious in his direction.

Harry was crushing a particularly wrinkly sopophorous bean with the flat of a silver dagger, when Slughorn was in his proximity. Despite being closer to Harry, the Potion Master was staring at Tom Riddle’s cauldron, nodding with approval at the light purple color. Harry bit his lower lip.

Though alarmed by Tom Riddle’s genius, Harry was still confident. Confident in the Half-Blood Prince’s quality teaching.

After adding the abundance of juice that he had squeezed out of the beans, Harry was relieved to see his potion turn to a light shade of lilac, even lighter than Tom Riddle’s. Harry felt a wave of self-satisfaction wash over him. He then proceeded with the stirring – remembering to add a clockwise stir every seventh counter clockwise stir, as per the Half-Blood Prince’s advice – and the potion turned pale pink. By then, a few heads had turned his way, no longer in disapproval.

‘Time is up!’ Slughorn declared. A few groans from the Gryffindor side was voiced. ‘I repeat, time is up! No more stirring!’

The Slytherin Head peered into the students’ cauldrons as he moved slowly across the tables. The classroom was quiet, as if the students were collectively holding a breath. Slughorn gave a tentative smile at a Gryffindor girl, whose potion was spewing black inky substance. When he reached Tom Riddle’s table, he gave away a look of delight.

‘Marvelous! A very accomplished attempt at a very difficult potion.’ He remarked, smiling fondly at his favorite student. ‘Time and time, you surprise us with your talent, Tom.’

Tom Riddle smiled pleasantly. ‘Only because I am blessed with a skilled professor.’

‘Always so modest and eager to compliment others, Tom. That attitude will get you places…!’ Harry could swear he saw a blush tinting Slughorn’s cheek. He almost grimaced in horror.

Slughorn merely gave Edouard Rosier’s cauldron a brief glance, despite his potion not being too far from Riddle’s shade of pink. It was clear that Slughorn had already decided the winner… _from the very beginning_ , Harry suspected. 

‘Not a bad job at all, Edouard.’ He commented, before moving along to the Slytherin girl sitting next to Harry and nodding approvingly at the slightly purple hue.

When Slughorn’s eyes swept past Harry’s cauldron, Harry could have sworn that he had missed it. Then, as if disbelieving his eyes, Slughorn gave it a second glance, and this time an astonished expression broke across his features.

‘Good gracious!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is a most pleasant surprise! That shade of pink… I have yet to see one so light...!’

Harry could feel the entire class’ attention weighing on him. Judging by the pregnant silence, nobody had expected this turnout of events. From the corner of his eyes, he searched for Tom Riddle’s profile. The other boy had turned around to face Harry. Harry fought the urge to look up, knowing that those dark eyes were studying him.

When Slughorn’s eyes rose from his cauldron, they paused at Harry, taking in his features, as if looking at him for the first time. ‘My dear boy, are you by chance related to Fleamont Potter?’

Harry felt a shock ripple through his body at the mention of ‘Potter’. His throat tightened, and when he spoke, he could hear his voice slightly trembling. ‘No, sir.’

‘I suppose not, since he and Euphemia are the last of the Potter line, but I must say, you look very, very alike… except for the eyes.’

Fleamont and Euphemia Potter were most likely his grandparents, Harry realized. Members of his family… _alive_.

Around them, the other students were all waiting impatiently for Slughorn’s final assessment, not interested in idle chat. Slughorn must have sensed the pressure too and resumed his speech.

‘Now, I was just about to say... for the first time in a long time, I find myself divided between two very talented contestants.’ Slughorn’s eyes brushed pointedly between Harry and Tom Riddle. ‘I am tempted to award you both a prize for your outstanding endeavours, gentlemen, but I only promised only one today and I must concede it to Evans, for the best Draught of Living Death I have ever seen over many years of teaching.’

Slughorn handed him a tiny bottle of Felicis Felix, identical to the one he would give him half a century later. Harry held it between his fingers, inspecting the beautiful golden hue with awe. He could feel the other students leaning in for a look, whispering, and among them he imagined the burn of Tom Riddle’ gaze, melting his skin like butter.

‘Tom, although you have not won the potion, you have gained a mighty contender.’ Slughorn said with delight. Harry winced. Slughorn was adding fuel to the fire! ‘It’s about time you experienced some competition, don’t you think?’

‘Absolutely,’ Tom Riddle said diplomatically, and when Harry raised his gaze, he met dark, unreadable eyes. ‘I look forward to it, Evans.’

Harry forced a smile.

Only a few moments later did Harry register what had just happened.

He had just bested Tom Riddle in a subject, in a very public fashion, which earned him not only Slughorn’s approval but also a prize. And if Harry remembered one thing from his visits in the Pensieve, it was that Tom Riddle loved collecting trophies and prizes.

‘That was brilliant!’ Harry’s neighbor exclaimed, pulling him away from his thoughts. ‘I’ve never seen someone best Tom Riddle at his own endeavours.’

‘Oh, er, thanks?’ Harry said, scratching the back of his head. ‘Your potion is not bad at all.’

‘Far from that light shade of pink,’ she stared pointedly at his cauldron.

‘Far from licorice black too,’ Harry said encouragingly and the Slytherin girl smiled.

‘I don’t suppose that was your first attempt, though.’ she remarked, blue eyes studying him sharply. ‘You seemed to really know what you were doing, and you were barely reading the handbook.’

‘You caught me,’ Harry said, laughing nervously. ‘red handed.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean it in a bad way,’ she laughed it off. ‘I’m fairly convinced that the Draught of Living Dead is a challenging potion no matter how many attempts one is given’

‘Good point,’ Harry said. ‘but like with any other potion, one does learn a few tricks through practise.’

‘I suppose you’re right… and that makes me wonder what other tricks you have up your sleeve,’ she said, leaning in with genuine curiosity. ‘You were not exactly following the textbook’s instructions, were you? Yet your potion turned out better than anyone’s.’

‘Oh, that… er – my godfather was a potion enthusiast.’ Harry said, though it could not be further from the truth. Sirius hated ‘chemistry sets’ with a passion, as they reminded him of his school nemesis. ‘He had developed some rather… unorthodox habits and I’m afraid I have picked up a few of them myself.’

‘Fascinating,’ she said, and judging by her tone Harry knew she meant it. ‘I often find textbooks instructive but limiting from a practical perspective. In the magical world, it’s no surprise that there is more than one way to reach the same result, but manuals only demonstrate a one-dimensional approach, which is why I find it really insightful and broadening to witness people apply their own unique techniques.’

For a moment moment, Harry thought he could see Hermione’s thirst for knowledge shine through her eyes, but Hermione’s enthusiasm was limited to the rigorous application of theory, whereas her Slytherin counterpart appreciated the divergent nature of skills acquired through practise.

‘I must excuse myself,’ she said, pressing a hand to her lips, likely having noticed Harry staring at her for too long. ‘I must have shocked you with my excessive blabbering.’

‘Not at all,’ Harry said kindly. ‘You just reminded me of one of my best friends, who happens to be a brilliant witch.’

‘Oh, I am flattered.’ she said pleasantly. ‘Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve introduced myself. I’m Rose Beauchamp. Pleased to meet you.’

‘The pleasure is mine,’ Harry returned and for once he meant it. ‘Hadrian Evans.’

‘I know,’ she said, smirking. ‘I also know that you made it to the Slytherin Quidditch Team, congratulations! Word has it that you are very talented.’

‘Thanks,’ said Harry, blushing a bit. He always felt uncomfortable when praised. ‘I honestly was just lucky that the Snitch was flying in my vicinity.’

‘You should give yourself more credit,’ she said, before adding. ‘By the way, I noticed that you didn’t come to Potions class last week. Did something happen?’

‘I wasn’t feeling very well,’ Harry lied, embarrassed that he had actually slept through it.

‘That’s unfortunate,’ Rose Beauchamp said. ‘Well, I was about to offer you my notes for the lesson you missed, but I can clearly see that you do not need them.’

‘I could definitely use the help,’ Harry said. ‘I’m decent practise wise, but when it comes to theory… well, let’s just say it’s not my forte.’

‘If you say so,’ she said, and handed him her notebook.

‘Thanks. I’ll return it as soon as I am done.’

‘There’s no real hurry,’ she reassured him with a smile.

Just then, the end of the period was signalled by the bell.

‘What’s your next class?’ they found themselves asking in unison.

~

By their third period together, Harry’s new companion began to warm up considerably to him. Rose Beauchamp turned out to be a Muggleborn, which Harry was secretly grateful for. That most likely explained why she wasn’t under Tom Riddle’s spell like the rest of the student body was. It also explained why she tended to mingle with students of the other Houses, who did not scorn her blood status like Slytherins did.

‘Call me Rose,’ she whispered to Harry. ‘Beauchamp sounds rather silly in English. It’s a French surname and believe me, the British rarely do it justice.’

Harry made a few attempts and earned a shriek of laughter from Rose.

‘You can call me Harry, then.’ he said in return, smiling at his new companion. ‘Hadrian sounds ancient. I much prefer Harry.’

‘Alright Harry,’ Rose beamed, and at that moment a string of sunray was caught in her golden locks and Harry thought she was very beautiful. ‘Have you decided when to use your fabulous prize?'

‘Ah,’ Harry absently fingered at the bottle of Felix Felicis tucked safely in his inner pocket. ‘I haven’t decided _when_. I think it’s more a matter of _what_ I will use it for.’

‘Oh? And what will that be?’

Harry shrugged. ‘I haven’t given it much of a thought, honestly.’

…which was true. Harry had no idea when Felix would come in handy, but he knew that when the time came, he would know.

‘Really?’ Rose’s face tilted with interest. ‘I was sure you had something specific in mind. You looked like you really wanted the potion.’

‘Oh, trust me, I did.’ Harry grinned. ‘I guess I will use it when I need luck the most.’

By the end of the day, Harry had made a new friend. Rose was great company. In many ways, she reminded Harry of Hermione - the thirst for knowledge, the sharpness in her eyes - but she was resourceful in a way that Hermione was not and definitely ambitious, traits which made her a Slytherin.

One of the wonders of friendship was that time seemed to roll exponentially faster in good company. The day flashed by in a blur and evening fell only too quickly. After having supper at the Great Hall (for a change), Harry retreated to the Dungeons with Rose, sitting in comfortable armchairs by the fireplace and working on a Transfiguration assignment. It almost reminded of his evenings with Ron and Hermione in the Gryffindor Tower.

So far, nobody openly reproached their friendship in Slytherin, though Harry had noticed a few disapproving looks in their direction throughout the day. That was, however, until Lestrange stepped into the picture.

‘Aw, look at you two,’ Lestrange said in a mocking falsetto, voice loud enough to catch most of the room’s attention. ‘A Mudblood and a Blood Traitor side by side! Just like those two-in-one, special edition offers that nobody wants!’

A few chuckles scattered across the Common Room. Harry clenched his fists, indignation rising in his chest. He hated how nobody came to their defense and simply watched as if this were a normal occurrence. Was Rose always treated like this in her own House? 

Harry had a very smart comment at the tip of his tongue when Rose stopped him.

‘Don’t bother,’ she whispered, but Harry knew Lestrange could hear her. ‘he’s not worth it.’

‘Oh really?’ Lestrange, now looking more menacing, advanced on them. He did not seem to like being dismissed or ignored.

‘Randolph, play nice,’ Tom Riddle, who had materialized from Merlin-knows-where, stepped forward and pressed his long fingers into Lestrange’s shoulder. The boy complied, much to Harry’s surprise and horror. Harry could only imagine what Riddle had done to subdue a wild card like Lestrange.

‘Good evening, Beauchamp.’ Riddle greeted silkily. She met his eyes with an unwavering gaze. ‘Please excuse Randolph’s manners. I hope we are not disturbing you and your friend.’

Harry fumed silently at 'your friend'. Was he so uninteresting in Riddle's eyes that his name was not even worth mentioning in his own presence? 

‘Good evening, Riddle.’ She returned, speaking with a calculated and controlled voice Harry did not know she possessed. ‘Rest assured, your company is most welcome.’

Though they were speaking very courteously to each other, Harry could sense tension building in the air. An unspoken strain. Harry’s eyes shifted between Rose and Tom Riddle. Then it struck him. Standing before him was an ambitious Muggleborn and a cunning Slytherin Heir, both prefects within the same House. They were meant to be natural enemies.

‘Very well,’ Riddle said. ‘I believe Professor Slughorn informed you that you will be responsible for tonight’s prefect rounds? Miss Pierce has unfortunately injured her ankle during the Quidditch Trial and cannot complete her duties.’

Harry did not miss the subtle way Tom Riddle had pronounced ‘Quidditch’, lips curling slightly as if the word meant dirt. To him, the sport was nothing more than an activity for brutes. 

‘Ah, yes, he did. Thank you for your kind reminder.’ Rose said, smiling angelically. ‘Is that all you wanted to tell me, Riddle?’

‘I was wondering if I can borrow Evans,’ was the unexpected answer. ‘I would like to have a word with him.’ 

Harry stared.

...what could Riddle possibly want to talk about with him?

‘I’m sure you can ask him yourself.’ Rose said, eliciting a humourless smile from Tom Riddle.

Tom Riddle’s eyes shifted to him. ‘I’m sure I can.’ 

Harry swallowed thickly. ‘What do you want to talk about, Riddle?’ he said, trying to sound unwary despite feeling quite the opposite. His fingers dug slightly into the fabric of his armchair.

‘I just want to relay a message,’ 

‘Alright,’ Harry rose from the comfort of his personal bubble. ‘Let’s hear it, then.’

And that was how Harry found himself in a corner of the Dungeon. Rose had already left for her Prefect rounds, leaving him with Tom Riddle. Alone. That annoyingly sweet smell soon filled the air around Harry. 

‘Professor Dumbledore wants to see you in his office,’ Riddle said, dark eyes searching for a response, but Harry’s features remained tightly controlled. Harry could have sworn something flashed in those eyes, but they were too dark and guarded to decipher. ‘He has something to discuss with you. I imagine it is important... considering the late hour.’

‘Thanks for letting me know, Riddle.’ Harry said, making a weak attempt at a smile. It probably came out as a grimace.

‘I’m only doing my duty,’ Riddle said almost melodically. ‘By the way, do you know where his office is located?’

‘Actually… I don’t.’ Harry answered, suddenly remembering that Dumbledore was not the Headmaster of Hogwarts in 1943. ‘Could you point me in the right direction?’

Riddle told him.

‘Cool, I’ll be on my way.’

Harry felt Riddle’s eyes follow him until he was out of the Dungeons.

~

‘Good evening, Harry.’ Dumbledore greeted jovially. ‘We haven’t spoken since your Sorting Ceremony last week. Have you been well?’

‘Yes, professor.’ Harry said and closed the door behind them before adding. ‘I’ve been slowly adjusting to the ways of this time.’

‘I’m happy to hear that.’ The older man smiled serenely. ‘I was worried at first that you might find it difficult to blend into your new House, taking into consideration your previous affiliation.’

‘Right,’ Harry said. ‘Slytherin’s a very different environment from Gryffindor, but I got used to it.’

‘Very well,’ Dumbledore nodded. ‘On my end, I have spoken to a few acquaintances of mine regarding the matter of the Pensieve.’

‘Have you discovered anything insightful?’ asked Harry, eyes lightening with hope.

‘Not that I know of,’ Dumbledore said regrettably. ‘Only that the science of pensieve memories is a complicated one, involving an incredibly high level of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. We will, however, continue looking into the matter.’

‘Oh, that’s too bad,’ was all Harry was able to say.

‘It is,’ Dumbledore agreed. ‘but that is not why I summoned you here tonight, Harry. As I have told you before, I must take a leave of absence from my teaching duties. In fact, I will be gone by tomorrow morning. Is there anything you wish to tell me before my departure?’

‘No, sir.’ Harry answered truthfully.

‘Very well,’ Dumbledore said, before rummaging through his desk. ‘I, on the other hand, have something to return to you.’

Harry soon found himself reunited with his Invisibility Cloak. He stared at the silky material with disbelief, feeling the fabric brushing against his fingers with wonder.

‘This was found among your belongings on the day of your arrival. Headmaster Dippet insisted on inspecting it for safety measures. It took a lot of convincing on my part to get it back to you, so I hope you will use it wisely.’

‘I will, professor.’ Harry said, grinning despite himself. He slipped the cloak under his robes. He would never let go of it again.

‘I’m sure you will,’ Dumbledore winked. ‘It is a fascinating artifact; I imagine it is very valuable to you.’

Harry nodded.

‘It is regrettable that I cannot stay here at Hogwarts to guide you in your journey in the past.’ Dumbledore continued. ‘It has recently come to my knowledge that you are accepted on the Slytherin Quidditch Team. The least I can do is to procure you an up-to-date broomstick.’

Harry’s eyes widened. A brand-new broomstick was handed to him. 

‘Thank you, Professor. I really appreciate this.’ Harry said, inspecting his new broom. It was a Cleansweep 4, which was not exactly as impressive as a Firebolt, but it was more than enough for his upcoming Quidditch practises.

‘It is my pleasure.’ Dumbledore said, and Harry received the famous twinkle of his blue gaze.

‘Is that all, professor?’ Harry asked, remembering the curfew. ‘I should be returning to my dormitory soon.’

‘Ah, one more thing before I let you go,’ Dumbledore said. ‘In the case that you experience any matter of immediate urgency during my absence, you are welcome to write to me. You will do so by handing your letter to Headmaster Dippet, who will deliver it to me through Fawkes in haste.’

In a corner of the room, Fawkes, just a newborn chick at the moment, croaked weakly upon hearing his name.

‘He is adorable.’ Harry said fondly. ‘Won’t he be accompanying you on your journey?’

‘He will and he will not.’ Dumbledore said. ‘but definitely not in his current state. Fawkes will, for the most part, be joining me but he will occasionally come back to Hogwarts in search for important news of the school. Fawkes can apparate within school grounds without activating the school wards (Harry recalled Dumbledore’s flashy escape from Umbridge in his 5th year). I also let him wander on his own when he gets the chance. Birds are not meant to be kept in cages, especially those with a phoenix’s level of curiosity.’

‘I see.’ Harry said. ‘I can imagine that Fawkes is magnificent companion.’

Dumbledore hummed in agreement. Fawkes let out a melodic chirp this time.

‘Well, it is getting late and I would hate to keep you out of bed at this hour.’ Dumbledore smiled serenely. ‘Have a good night, Harry. I hope our next meeting will be sooner rather than later.’

‘Thank you, professor.’ Harry said. ‘Have a safe journey.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO GLAD THAT HARRY FINALLY MADE A FRIEND :))) btw I noticed a lack of Muggleborn characters in Slytherin (in canon and fanfics alike). Guess that's my cue to create one? :))


	6. Dumbledore out, Riddle in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello I'm back with chapter 6, enjoy!

The next morning, news of Dumbledore’s departure spread like wildfire, reaching every corner of the castle. Breakfast was a tense affair; the Transfiguration professor’s absence on the Long Table was very noticeable and conversation inevitably revolved around him and, of course, Grindelwald.

It was difficult for Harry to picture that there was a very real Dark Lord rampaging the Wizarding World at the moment, and that said Dark Lord did not have red eyes nor slits for nostrils. 

Harry’s eyes naturally drew themselves to Tom Riddle, who was eating his breakfast quietly with his associates at the other side of the Slytherin table. If anything, the Slytherin Prefect looked unaffected by the tense political climate because of course, why would he mourn at the absence of Dumbledore, who he disliked above all professors? 

‘Will Professor Dumbledore be alright?’ Rose asked gently, pulling Harry out of his thoughts.

‘He will,’ Harry said quietly, but firmly. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

Rose bit her lips. ‘It’s strange… Hogwarts without Dumbledore.’

Harry agreed. Dumbledore’s presence was like a pillar that held together the foundation of Hogwarts. Without him, the school felt empty, unsettling…

‘I really hope he comes back before we graduate.'

‘Me too, Rose. Me too.’

During their shared Free Period later in the day, they had scheduled a studying session with some of Rose’s friends.

They sat on an elongated table in the center of the Library in the company of Mina McKinnon, an accomplished Ravenclaw girl, known for scoring near perfect O.W.L.s grades. Next to her was a beautiful Hufflepuff girl named Lucy Westenberg. Rose, who was to his right, had mentioned that Lucy Westenberg was ⅛ Veela, which accounted for the beautiful silver hue of her hair and had warned him against gawking little an idiot, which did little to impress her.

15 minutes later, a Gryffindor boy materialized next to them, his wild red hair in complete disarray and his chest heaving like he had just run a marathon.

‘Sorry,’ he said guiltily, looking mostly in Mina McKinnon’s direction. ‘I uh, got lost on my way through an unknown corridor.’

None of the girls looked impressed.

The boy’s eyes then shifted to Harry. Harry stared back. There was something about the boy’s features which seemed eerily familiar.

‘Let me introduce you boys.’ Rose said, breaking the short silence. ‘Harry, this is Oscar Prewett. Oscar, meet Hadrian Evans.’

‘I remember you, you’re the new kid!’ Prewett’s face stretched into a grin. Harry stared. It was refreshing not to see a smirk for a change. ‘You bested Tom Riddle in Potions class, didn’t you?’

‘Oh, uh… yeah.’

‘You must be really good at Potions.’ Prewett said wistfully. ‘Wish I had half your talents. Mine came out as a disaster… it was practically spewing vomit!’

‘I’m not that good. It was honestly just luck.’ Harry said, feeling mildly guilty about his success.

‘Trust me, it takes more than just luck to humble Tom Riddle,’ Prewett pointed out.

‘Harry is very modest,’ Rose said fondly. ‘to a fault, really.’

Harry felt his cheeks redden.

‘That’s something Oscar can learn from Evans,’ Mina McKinnon remarked without looking up from her books.

Prewett’s cheeks colored with embarrassment.

Lucy Westenberg turned to Harry and giggled. ‘Oscar got promoted to the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain last week. He likes to remind Mina of his achievements quite frequently.’

The redness soon reached Prewett’s ears, matching the flaming color of his hair. He looked quite pitiful, so Harry came to his rescue.

‘That’s remarkable,’ Harry said kindly. ‘What position do you play?’

‘I’m a Keeper,’ Prewett said.

Harry thought that Prewett had quite the build for it.

‘Now that I think of it,’ Rose remarked. ‘You two will be playing against each other in the upcoming Season!’

‘I didn’t know you played Quidditch, Evans!’ Prewett looked pleasantly surprised.

‘I just got accepted on the team.’ Harry said. ‘as a Seeker.’

‘Brilliant!’ Prewett said excitedly. ‘Well, I look forward to a friendly competition and, if you don’t object to the idea, we could also go flying leisurely before drilling season hits us.’

‘I would love to.’ Harry said.

Prewett's mouth dropped open with sudden realization. ‘Bloody hell, I’ll have to schedule those horrid practises myself, won’t I?’

Mina McKinnon looked highly unimpressed.

Harry laughed despite himself. Prewett and his quirkiness reminded him strongly of Ron, with that red head and the freckles that scattered over his nose. He also had a habit of blushing to the tip of his ears, which was quite amusing to watch.

Just then, a bespectacled Librarian pressed a finger against her thin lips. Her eyes bulged in their sacks dramatically.

‘Quiet!’ 

They quickly pressed their noses back into their books.

Within one hour, Harry had finally completed his Charms assignment. Mina McKinnon had accomplished thrice the quantity of schoolwork in the same amount of time, which was truly no surprise, as she took no less than 8 NEWTs courses (including Ancient Runes and Arithmancy). Oscar Prewett, by contrast, had been staring at the same page of his Transfiguration textbook for the past 20 minutes.

‘Pssst! Mina!’ Prewett whispered rather loudly, eyes brightening when he finally caught his friend’s attention. ‘Can I pleaaaaseee borrow your notes for Transfiguration?’

The Ravenclaw girl shook her head in disapproval but offered her notebook anyway. ‘You shouldn’t have dozed off in class, Oscar. Next time I catch you, I won’t be so lenient.’

Oscar Prewett smiled sheepishly at her.

Hermione and Ron, Harry thought, a pang of nostalgia spreading in his chest.

‘Blimey! With these notes, Mina,’ said Prewett in amazement as he flipped through the pages. ‘I have no idea how you still don’t beat the likes of Tom Riddle.’

Mina McKinnon curled a strand of brown hair behind her ear. ‘Notes are not the only things that matter when it comes to academics. Besides, Tom Riddle is nothing short of a prodigy. I’ve never seen someone with so much potential and talent… it’s almost frightening.'

‘Riddle really is something else, isn’t he?’ Lucy Westenberg mused, folding her arms on the table. ‘Impossibly handsome, intelligent and faultlessly charming… he’s the real deal.’

‘That’s what makes him suspicious,’ Prewett said, voice rising with conviction. The librarian from earlier snapped her head at him, causing a few students to look up in their direction. ‘Nobody’s that perfect without some kind of a drawback. There’s always something… and Riddle’s hiding it well, I’m telling you.’

‘Perhaps you should be less vocal about your opinions, Oscar.’ His Ravenclaw friend said sharply, looking around them as if by fear of being overheard.

‘Last time I checked, we live in a democratic country. Prewett retorted hotly. ‘I have the right to say what I want, when I want and where I want.’

‘Yes… but not when it comes to Tom Riddle!’ Mina McKinnon practically hissed under her breath.

‘Why is it so wrong for Prewett to voice his opinion on Tom Riddle?’ Harry asked, curious despite himself.

‘You’re new here, Evans, so you wouldn’t understand.’ Lucy Westenberg said, voice lowering to a whisper. ‘Riddle’s the resident Golden Boy and is well-liked by all his peers and all, but he’s definitely dangerous if crossed.’

‘Dangerous?’ Harry said, pretending to be shocked.

‘Have you not heard of the stories, Evans?’ Lucy Westenberg murmured curiously.

‘What stories?’ He found himself asking without second thought. Sometimes, Harry hated that part of himself that found Tom Riddle so intriguing and fascinating.

‘I’m certain Rose can enlighten you,’ Lucy Westenberg said, and her pale eyes shifted sideways to study her friend. ‘She’s been in Slytherin as long as Riddle has and has witnessed a fair deal of things over the years.’

‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that.’ Rose said, looking apologetically at Harry. ‘Trust me, Harry, some things are better left unknown.’

‘Rose is being very protective,’ Lucy Westenberg told him.

Mina McKinnon nodded. ‘Knowledge comes with a price… sometimes less said the better, I reckon.’

Oscar Prewett did not seem to share their opinion, but he kept quiet all the same.

The conversation ended there, much to Harry’s disappointment. Harry privately wondered what exactly Rose had seen in Slytherin in the past 5 years, especially through the perspective of a Muggleborn.

When they left the Library, the sun had already reached the peak of its daily course. Tempted by the exceptionally good weather, the group opted for a picnic in the courtyard and stopped by the Kitchen to grab some food. The House-Elves were delighted to find him with company this time.

‘Mr. Evans has made new friends!’ a sweet House-Elf called Mimi squealed in pure glee. She happily volunteered to prepare their take-out meal and Harry smiled fondly at her, who reminded him strongly of Dobby and his free-spirit.

Harry grew to like Rose’s friends. A lot. They were friendly and good-natured and straightforward, so unlike the snakes. They also did not kiss Tom Riddle’s arse like the rest of the school, thank Merlin. In fact, Harry was getting the impression that they did not seem to like Tom Riddle at all, if their earlier conversation was anything to go by.

Not that Harry had anything against those who got swayed by Riddle’s charming persona; Harry felt nothing but sympathy for them. For it was these very same people who would experience the greatest shock when witnessing the horrible transition from Tom Riddle to Voldemort.

Harry wondered how Rose and her friends would react to the rise of Lord Voldemort. Would they be shocked . . . unsurprised . . . or perhaps angry? Angry enough to actively work against the future Dark Lord?

It was this trail of thought that made Harry recall a conversation he did not think much of at the time: 

_ Voldemort had killed some o' the best witches an' wizards of the age — the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts . . . _

Harry failed to suppress a shudder.

Seeing them eating together so peacefully, the warmth of the sun reflecting in their innocent eyes, unbound from knowledge of the future, Harry couldn’t bring himself to think of the Fate that awaited them during the First Wizarding War, as well as his own future, still pending 53 years in the future.

Just then, Mina McKinnon and Lucy Westenberg giggled at a joke Oscar Prewett had made. Harry joined in the laughter. Good things did not last forever, but that did not mean he could not enjoy their fleeting quality.

‘Oh, if you look at the time!’ Rose exclaimed in dismay at her Tempus. ‘We must take our leave now, ladies, or we will be tardy for our meeting.’

The girls rose to their feet promptly.

‘Where are you going?’ Harry asked Rose, unaware of this ‘meeting’ she had.

‘To the Women’s Society of Hogwarts,’ Lucy Westenberg answered for her friend. ‘Today is our first gathering of the year.’

‘It’s a social club for ladies. Exclusively.’ Prewett explained, mouth still full. ‘Mina  _ adores _ it and hosts a great deal of events throughout the year.’

‘ - and they are brilliant.’ Rose said, eyes shining with excitement.

‘Sounds great,’ Harry smiled encouragingly. ‘Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Have fun!’

They departed in a hurry, leaving Harry alone with Oscar Prewett.

‘There’s an hour left to Lunch Break.’ Prewett observed, taking the last bite of his sandwich in such a large mouthful that would make Ron proud.

‘Shall we take up that proposal of flying?’ 

Oscar grinned.

They reunited 10 minutes later at the Quidditch Pitch, with a broom over their shoulder, wearing their respective Quidditch uniform. It was quite a sight to behold: red contrasting green. They raced about the pitch, doing the craziest of maneuvers, earning a series of ‘Ooohhhh’ and ‘Ahhhh’ from the small crowd (since when did they appear?) at the stands.

They stopped only when both of them were out of breath, collapsing on their backs against the grass, the afternoon sun reflecting the layer of sweat on their skin.

‘I got to hand it to you.’ Oscar breathed. ‘You’re pretty good’

‘You’re not so bad yourself.’

‘I’m still going to beat you at the match.’

‘You wish,’

Oops, did Harry just smirk?

Harry had his first Quidditch Practise with the Slytherins that evening and he almost instantly regretted flying with Oscar Prewett earlier in the day. Winky Crockett’s infamous training program lived up to its reputation, all right. Even Lestrange, who had seemed so vicious and tireless during the Quidditch Trials, was too busy for his usual antics.

After undergoing countless drills, agility tests and match simulations, the team only stopped at sundown when it was too dark to fly. And that was not the end of it; Crockett had whipped out countless strategic formations (which Neil Lament had written) and forced them to study them until everyone memorized everything. That meant staying late into the night as the group had to compensate for Avery’s inferior number of brain cells.

When they finally finished, Harry could feel his muscles tremble at the tiniest movement. He took every step down the staircase leading to the Dungeons at a sloth’s pace, not unlike an old man without his cane. Exhaustion tugged at every inch of his body, weighing him down like bricks sinking in deep water.

Despite this, a grin worked its way across his face. There was nothing that could ruin the exceptionally good mood he had been in the past few days. Quidditch was a timeless pleasure of his, no matter how demanding the sport was, and even more importantly, Harry had made friends – Rose, and most recently, Mina, Lucy and Oscar. He did not know them well, not yet, but he already knew that they would only become closer with time and he appreciated that they never questioned his past like the other Slytherins did.

The Slytherin Common Room was almost empty by the time Harry was back. Rose was on her Prefect rounds, so Harry marched toward the Dormitory, thinking longingly of the cold shower and sleep that awaited him.

‘Hello, Evans,’ A melodic voice greeted from behind.

Harry froze in his steps, knowing exactly to whom it belonged. Slowly, he turned around.

‘Hello, Riddle.’

Tom Riddle was lounging on an elongated sofa near the fireplace, the flickering light of the flames caught in his high cheekbones. Alone. A rare occurrence, since Riddle was always surrounded by willing company.

‘It’s a fine evening.’ Riddle murmured, closing the thick book in his lap. ‘Too fine to enjoy in my own company. Come here and join me.’

‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea - I’m all sweaty and uh –’ Harry stammered.

‘That’s alright.’ Riddle looked faintly amused. ‘Sit.’

_ That’s an order _ , Harry thought with indignation, but when Riddle gestured to the seat next to him, his handsome features pleasant and inviting, Harry couldn’t find it in himself to refuse him.

A horrible mixture of dread and excitement pulsated through his veins as he watched his own legs drag himself toward the handsome prefect. Toward  _ danger _ .

‘So,’ Riddle’s dark eyes flickered to him, his right arm stretching along the back of the sofa. ‘How are you adjusting to Hogwarts?’

Harry stared in disbelief. Was Riddle actually trying to make small talk with him? After all this time of ignoring him…? 

He humored him nonethless, not wanting things to be more awkward than they already were. ‘Er, things are going well, I suppose.’ 

‘That does seem to be the case,’ Riddle said pleasantly, breathing honey into the air. ‘Your endeavours in Potions was noted and your recent addition to the Slytherin Quidditch team has been quite the talk these days…’

‘Oh, er, thanks?’ Harry said, caught off guard by Riddle’s flattering words, a far cry from his indifference. 

Somehow, the thought did not alarm Harry as much as it should have.

Riddle smiled charismatically, all teeth. ‘Speaking of Quidditch, I hope you are not too exhausted from your practise, though I must doubt that, having heard many stories of Captain Crockett’s intense training programs.’

‘I’m afraid there’s a strong basis for them.’ Harry said, and his aching muscles agreed. ‘not that I’m complaining, of course. Our captain is just being very prepared...’

‘That attitude makes all the difference between success and failure.’ Riddle remarked, nodding his head with approval. ‘Very good.’

Harry hummed in agreement. He felt as if in a dream, disbelieving he and Riddle were actually having a conversation about  _ Quidditch _ , of all things…

Riddle’s eyes shifted to the broomstick in Harry’s lap. ‘That’s a generous gift you received from Professor Dumbledore,’

Harry inspected the brand new Cleansweep 4. ‘Yeah, and I’m very grateful for it.’

Riddle tilted his head to the side, a curl fell gently down his face, which only made him look more handsome. ‘Interesting. Professor Dumbledore is not known to be generous to Slytherins. He is, after all, the Head of Gryffindor. You must be very close with him to be on the receiving end of what many would consider to be special treatment.’

There was a sharpness to Riddle’s statement, despite the boy’s smooth, velvety voice, compelling Harry to quickly elaborate. ‘Er, I wouldn’t call us close. We had a purely professional relationship, really. My Godfather used to do undercover work for Dumbledore in the war before, well, he passed away. I suppose the broom was a gift of condolence, if anything . . . ’

There was a pause, in which the other boy seemed to be calculating.

‘I was not aware that he was your former employer.’ A look of understanding dawned upon Riddle’s face, darkening the shadows on his handsome features. ‘That would explain a lot of things . . .  _ yes _ .’

Harry tensed. Something inexplicably ominous in that voice prompted him to suddenly gain awareness of his surroundings, the feeling akin to awakening from a trance. Glancing wildly around him, Harry was horrified to find the Slytherin Common Room completely empty, all its previous occupants seemingly gone in the blink of an eye.

Questions he should have asked himself sooner flooded his mind: Why was Tom Riddle talking to him? Why was he alone in the first place? Was the other waiting specifically for Harry to come?

For some reason, Harry did not want to find out.

‘Well, it’s getting quite late,’ Harry pointed out, his mouth suddenly feeling very dry. ‘As you can see, Riddle, I am settling well in school. If that’s all you wanted to discuss, I –’

‘Oh, but I am  _ far _ from done . . . and from what I gather, returning late to the dorm has never been a concern of yours.’ Harry almost flinched when Riddle leaned in, the trail of his dark eyes tingling on his skin. ‘My, you look awfully eager to leave. What’s the matter, Evans? Do you not enjoy talking to me?’

‘No, of course not . . .’ Harry laughed, and it sounded too high-pitched and nervous even to his own ears. ‘It’s just that, well, we aren’t that close…’

‘We aren’t.’ Tom Riddle easily agreed and scratched his chin in consideration. 'but that can change. Why not take this opportunity to get to know each other better? We could even become friends.’

Harry opened his mouth. Then closed it, only to open it again. ‘I don’t quite understand you, Riddle.’

‘Oh?’ Riddle looked genuinely interested.

Harry licked his lips. ‘You made it perfectly clear that you weren’t interested in me from the beginning. Why the sudden change of heart?’

A contemplative pause.

‘Consider it… a reciprocation of your attention.’ Riddle’s lips curled with amusement at Harry’s questioning look. A sign of danger. But  _ nothing _ could prepare him for what Riddle was about to say next. ‘Did you really think I did not notice your less than subtle staring, Evans, following me wherever I went? Should I be flattered . . . or worried?’

A feverish heat rushed to Harry’s cheeks, drowning him in mortification. For the first time, he was very, very grateful for the Dungeon’s dimly lit atmosphere.

‘I’m opting for the latter.’ Tom Riddle continued, giving Harry no time to recover. ‘You see, a  _ little bird _ told me that you were very eager to indulge in information about me . . . to an alarming extent. And I must say, Evans, for someone so fixated on me, you seem oddly keen on avoiding my notice.’

Harry’s body tensed at the implication. His mind whirled back to the events of the past few days like a film tape spinning in rewind, pausing at particular scenes – Nott, speaking lowly into Tom Riddle’s ears in the Dungeons – Nott again, this time approaching Harry in the Great Hall, egging him on with juicy gossip about Tom Riddle.

The puzzle finally fit.

Nott was that  _ little bird. _ The younger boy had been in Tom Riddle’s pocket this entire time, faithfully reporting back to his leader after acquiring intel about the new boy, and Harry had been so… utterly, stupidly _ ignorant _ about it!

When Riddle spoke again, his lips were so close to his ears that Harry failed to suppress a shudder. ‘Looks like you finally caught on. Rather slow… aren’t you? … but fast enough to be in Slytherin, I suppose…’

Leo Nott’s remarks, except Riddle had twisted them, knowingly, _ tauntingly _ .

At once, the entire magnitude of Harry’s wrath was pushed to the forefront, like an overflowing cauldron. His distress and embarrassment regressed, thrusted into a small forgotten corner of his consciousness.

‘You sent Nott after me. Really?’ Harry scowled, unable to help himself. ‘Is this a sick hobby of yours? Sitting back while your little minions go after the new boy, doing all the dirty work for you?’

‘Something like that.’ Riddle smirked, unaffected by Harry’s outburst. If anything, he seemed to welcome it.

‘Not even trying to hide it.’ Harry muttered darkly. ‘What happened to your model student act, Riddle? Dropping it altogether, are we?’

‘There is no point in keeping up appearances when they no longer serve their purpose.’ Riddle murmured dangerously. ‘You, of all people, should know that.’

Harry frowned, trying to discern what the other was implying.

‘Don’t play innocent, Evans.’ Riddle continued in that soft, unaffected voice. ‘We both know that you are spying on me for Dumbledore.’

For a few moments – it could have been seconds or minutes – Harry simply  _ stared _ , as if considering whether Riddle was really there, that they were actually having this conversation at this very moment in time because the situation was so absurd that Harry wanted to scream. 

‘That’s the single most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my life,’ Harry said incredulously. ‘After planting your own spy on me, you somehow come to the conclusion that  _ I _ am a spy?’

Riddle simply smirked at him, as if knowing something Harry did not. ‘Do you believe in fate, Evans?’

‘Fate?’ Harry considered the unexpected question with . . . bitterness. If Fate existed, then she really seemed to  _ loathe _ Harry for putting him in this stupid situation! ‘No, I don’t.’

‘Good, neither do I,’ the other smiled thinly. ‘Nor do I believe in coincidences, for that matter.’

‘I can hardly see the point of this conversation.’ Harry snapped, tired of Riddle and his roundabout tendencies.

‘Oh, we’re getting there,’ Riddle said melodiously, a dangerous look in his eyes. ‘On that  _ fateful  _ night of our meeting – yes,  _ I _ found you in that corridor, but you already know that, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Harry said through gritted teeth. ‘Someone’s always up to something late at night.’

Harry shouldn’t have said that – it was really not helping his situation – but he couldn’t bring himself to care very much at the moment. 

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Riddle said innocently, before continuing. ‘That night, I was on my prefect rounds – which I happen to take very seriously – when you fell over me out of thin air.’

Harry paled. How could he possibly forget that Riddle was the sole witness to the unexpected event of his arrival, which nobody else knew of, except for Dumbledore and Dippet, and that it could very likely bite him in the back? That it could –

but Riddle was not done.

‘It struck me as most peculiar, as one can well imagine, especially considering that any form of teleportation is strictly forbidden on school grounds… but what I find even more fascinating, is that of all the places one can appear in Hogwarts, Evans, you decided to materialize in that dark forgotten corridor I was patrolling. Isn’t that the most curious thing?’

An uncomfortable, tense silence stretched between them. The words ‘I know that you were spying on me that night, Evans,’ was left unspoken, lingering ominously in the air.

Harry knew Riddle was fishing for an explanation – a chance for Harry to slip up and catch him in the act. Harry bit his lower lip. Dippet had barely swallowed that half-arse story of the portkey. There was little point in using it on Riddle, the sole witness of his appearance in that corridor and they both knew that there was no such portkey in sight . . .

An unwelcome realization sank in.

Tom Riddle had his eyes on Harry the very moment they met. The other had been pretending to be indifferent this entire time, playing Harry like a fool while scheming behind the shadows . . . waiting for the perfect moment to reveal his true colors . . .

. . . but what exactly was he waiting for?

Harry froze.

Dumbledore is gone.

‘So quiet,’ Riddle murmured into the silence. ‘Am I making you uncomfortable? Hitting too close to the mark, perhaps?’

Harry glowered at the other. ‘You’ve got  _ nothing _ on me, Riddle.’

‘Oh?’ Riddle’s eyes lit up with sick amusement. ‘Your reaction tells me otherwise.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.' he practically hissed.

'Look at you, so flustered and bothered.’ Riddle said, leaning in and causing Harry to flinch from their proxmity. ‘If you were truly as innocent as you claim to be, you wouldn’t be so responsive to my presence, my words and my actions.' 

Harry felt a surge of indignation bubbling in his stomach, because as much as Harry hated it, there was an ounce of truth to Riddle's words - and that mocking, patronizing tone! - pushing him, Gryffindor as he proved to be, to jump on the offence.

‘Works both ways.’ He spat. ‘If you were half as innocent as you like people to believe, you wouldn’t be acting so bloody  _ paranoid _ ! Truth is, you’re terrified of Dumbledore because he sees right through your lies! You wouldn’t even dare talk to me if he were still here!’

The words flew out of his mouth before he knew it – before he knew what he was about to say. It was too late when Harry realized that he openly accused Riddle of being less than innocent.

Harry swallowed thickly under the intensity of Riddle's scrutiny. 

It felt like an eternity before the Slytherin prefect spoke again.

‘Well, our conversation was most insightful.’ Tom Riddle rose from the armchair, looking like the cat got the cream. ‘I thoroughly enjoyed it, Evans. Catch you next time.’

Next time was a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a challenge to write (I rewrote it 5 times OwO), but I am super glad to finally reach a turning point in the story that is Tom's confrontation with Harry :D
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it and thanks for reading!


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